


The Brotherhood

by NotRoman (Manniness)



Series: And Prove More Fierce [2]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand
Genre: German brothers are awesome, Gladiator!Nasir, M/M, Nasir POV, Nasir becomes a gladiator, Nasir runs circles around E V E R Y O N E, POV First Person, The Gauls are shits, first person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-04 17:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12776253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/NotRoman
Summary: Sequel to The RecruitBeing branded with the mark of the Brotherhood is just the beginning.  Nasir must now prepare for his first fight in the arena... if he can survive the ludus, that is.WARNINGS: Basically, if you've seen the TV show, you know what kind of triggers to expect. (I feel that the Starz Spartacus series itself is "Explicit" and, since this fic is a Canon AU, I'm sticking with that rating.) HOWEVER, I will post warnings (such as DEATH, TORTURE, GORE (violent or medicinal), and SEXYTIMES) at the beginning of corresponding chapters. FYI, I have ZERO plans to describe Non-Con/NCS in detail.





	1. Learning the Spear

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to say a few words about the last chapter of the previous work: "The Recruit"
> 
> OK, so, PTSD happened there for Nasir. Or repressed memories. Or something. I am not an expert. But, clearly, he was in a state of shock when his family’s caravan was attacked and never dealt with all the confusion. He was shipped off and sold and set up in a new life and forced to focus on making it through one day at a time before he could process what had happened. The branding sends his body into shock (the medical “shock”, I mean) and triggers a serious flashback that causes all sorts of strange associations, jumbling up all the bad shit he doesn’t normally allow himself to think about.
> 
> Not gonna get into the Marius angle much right now, just so you know. But it’s out there now, mirroring the implications of what was required of Tiberius in the show (which I will NOT be mentioning in explicit detail).
> 
> It’s a toss-up as to whether Duro is gonna be a bit more sensitive about the sex things. (Maybe not.) But Agron has always respected Nasir’s boundaries, so that’s not gonna change… he’ll just be adding another name to his very lengthy “Short List of Roman Fucks to Kill.” (And now I have a N-E-E-D to write a fic with that as a title. Damn it.)
> 
> ANYWAY. This story picks up hours after "The Recruit" leaves off. If you haven't read "The Recruit," I recommend doing so as I have not made any attempt for the individual fics to stand alone.

 

Questions.

Fuck the gods.  The same inquiring looks and jests assaulted me from the Gauls, the Sardinians, the Nubians…

“You were absent from the celebration, little man.”

I rallied.  “As you were present, I’m sure it was a satisfactory experience.”

“Those fucking German brothers kept you occupied, eh?”

I arched a brow.  “Apologies.  It was not my intention to stir envy.”

Perhaps Donar had warned the men of the ludus about me.  Or perhaps I had subjected the hapless gladiator to sharpness of tongue often enough for my retorts to become accepted fact.  Everyone seemed eager to press fortune and earn a rejoinder to call their own.  I obliged.  It was easier than admitting I had completely lost my senses.  And not nearly as troublesome as attempting to convince everyone that the gods themselves had claimed my tongue.

When Doctore intervened, collecting both me and -- with a gesture -- my portion of gruel, I decided that I favored him almost as much as my German brothers.

“Heed my words as you eat.”

I nodded and shoved a spoonful in my mouth.  We stood beside the medicus’ station where I assumed our voices would not carry down the gloomy corridor.  If anyone would know the secrets of the ludus, it would be this man.

“Dominus intends to enter you in the games to take place in twenty-six days.  You will train with Rabanus as a light-armored hoplomachus and begin with the spear from today.  He has often fought in the primus,” Doctore warned.

I understood; Rabanus was due respect.  “I would be honored to receive his instruction.  Gratitude, Doctore.”

“See yourself to proper dress.”

One of the slaves who rotated through the ludus -- a practice that had perhaps taken hold as a result of the mistreatment Spartacus had spoken of -- accompanied me to the ludus stores.  Obtaining a more substantial wrap was not overly difficult, but it took some time to locate leather armor for my right shoulder and arm that fit my frame.  Even then, the buckles were placed through tightest settings.

“This is your shelf,” the man told, indicating a ledge along the wall which counted in the second row, seventh from the door.

I thanked him, asked his name, and offered to accompany him to his next charge.  He was of similar age as me, and I wondered if his apparent comfort in the ludus was little more than a brave front.  But he declined the offer of escort: “It is not wise for a house slave to be seen with one who carries the mark of the Brotherhood.”

“I will not argue, but I would ask for explanation.  The ways of this house are yet new to me.”

The man -- Lysandros -- offered, “It is best for you: if I am mistreated, Spartacus may cast blame upon those most recently seen in my company.”

“He took action against the man who harmed the previous ludus slave?”

“Decisive,” Lysandros confirmed.  “Spartacus saw the man -- Gneaus -- to cliff’s edge and over it.”

Impressive.  And, what was even more so was the implication that Spartacus had not been punished for this; I had noticed no recent lash marks upon the Thracian’s back.

The man continued, “But it is also best for me that we part company here for I do not think your German brothers would question me kindly should I cause you offense.”

“I am not easily stirred toward grievance,” I assured him, “but should I seek quarrel, I would not stand behind another.”  With a quirk to my lips, I allowed, “If for no other reason than to ensure myself clear view of opponent.”

Lysandros snickered, measuring my height with his gaze.  Though his build was as slender as mine, he was half a head taller.  Yet it was his next words that endeared him to me as friend: “Even Batiatus calls them titans.”

I huffed a laugh.

“May the gods fight at your side, Nasir.”

“Gratitude, Lysandros.  I would break words again if you are of a mind.”

He took my empty bowl and spoon, making way toward the kitchen.  I jogged down the corridor toward the yard, grabbing a practice sword and taking my place between Agron and Duro as Doctore called the men to drills.

Agron eyed my dark brown wrap, narrow leather belt, and acquired armor with an appreciative curl to his lips.  The moment we were dismissed from morning exercises, familiar fingertips brushed along the straps spanning my back, a reverent remark of approval made in silence.

Exchanging Agron’s slow grin with one of my own, I forced my feet to the purpose Doctore had assigned me: I sought out Rabanus… who took his time conversing with Rhaskos.  As the newest member of the Brotherhood, I did not hold enough status to interrupt them.

I waited, gaze traveling over the matches in the yard, making no attempt to listen to words not meant for me.

But then--

“Little man.  Tell how you cheated me of victory.”

I frowned at Rhaskos.  “Of what do you speak?”

“The test,” he retorted, rolling his eyes.

Rabanus watched me with arms crossed.  I chose my words with care.  “The test.  You were at disadvantage,” I admitted, “though it was not trickery.  I have been given many opportunities to study each man’s favored strategy.  You were consistent in yours.  I anticipated the blows.”

Rhaskos chuckled, shaking his head ruefully.  “I am guilty of predictability, then.”

“As would be any man, I’m sure,” I appeased, “had Doctore selected another in your stead.”

“That tactic will not aid you in the arena,” Rabanus informed me.

“It will not,” I agreed.  “Yet I would learn what shall and thereby do you credit upon the sands.  In order to express my gratitude for instruction.”

The man’s brows rose at my temerity.  “You make assumptions.”

“Apologies.  It is not assumption but determination.  They tell me I am a stubborn shit.”

Rhaskos laughed and even Rabanus’ glare seemed to ease at my declaration.  Rhaskos slapped the man’s shoulder to gain his attention, “What do you say I test his claim?”

Rabanus smirked.  “I would evaluate our little man, yes.  Sword and shield.”

Sword and shield.  With these, Rhaskos seemed determined to punish me for my victory the evening before.  As Doctore did not voice objection to our sparring, I resolved to learn what Rhaskos would teach, intentionally or not.

Blow after blow fell upon my shield and sword.  I endeavored to turn my defense into strikes, but merely earned bruised shins and scraped knees and sand covered skin.  Rhaskos pressed every advantage, and he held many.  I was thankful for the lessons Agron and Duro had given me in falling and rolling.  My speed saved me more than once, but I was unable to land more than a few damaging blows.

I was frustrated and exhausted and pushing myself to my feet for the sixth time when Rabanus called a halt.

“How are you not fucking dead yet?” Rhaskos panted.  The mockery was gone from his tone.

“I am a stubborn shit,” I wearily repeated, shocking a belly laugh from the aromatic Gaul.

He nodded.  “Words of truth.”  Turning to Rabanus, he asked, “Would you have further demonstration?”

“No.  This is sufficient.”

Rhaskos offered me his arm.  Though he had tolerantly extended it the night before, there was some quality in his eyes now that spoke of acceptance.  He had withheld acknowledgment of my previous victory, but in crossing swords and standing against him today, I had finally earned it.

As the Gaul strode off toward Donar and Varro’s ongoing match, I awaited Rabanus’ order.

He studied me for long moments before giving it: “Fetch two practice spears.”

I did.

Rabanus directed me through a series of exercises and drills.  The movements were similar to the ones every man undertook with wooden gladius following the morning and midday meals.  Rabanus’ own spear blurred whenever he made correction, knocking the shaft against my arms, hips, back, knees, or ankles to reprimand my substandard balance.

After nearly an hour of dogged rehearsal -- interspersed with whacks upon my person whenever Rabanus was moved to break with his own training to test my footing and carriage -- he faced me as an opponent.  I performed the drills as he batted away my blows and delivered attack to each blocking maneuver.  My arms ached.  My spine throbbed.  My legs trembled.  But I could feel my own balance shifting, settling, strengthening as my body learned to shoulder this new weight.

_****“I would help shoulder weight…”** ** _

Agron had made that offer not long after I had begun sharing the cage with him and his brother.  At midday meal, I was sorely tempted to take him up on it.

“How do you fare, little man?” Agron asked, cheeky and provoking.

I was too tired to kick his ankle under the table, but I was not too tired to straighten my spine.  I silently thanked him for reminding me of my pride even as I muttered, “Better than you will after a night on the floor.”

Duro snickered.

Agron’s fingers twitched; if he’d been sitting next to his brother, I could easily imagine him flicking Duro’s ear.  Instead, he ducked his head and passed murmured words: “Am I not of more use beside you than far from your presence?”

I fought the shiver of heat and met his happy grin with a stern look.  “And what purpose do you think you serve, German?”

His chin swiveled in the equivalent of a shrug.  “Choice is yours.”

It truly was.  Heartfelt confessions and blatant affection had not led to further intimacies between us.  Agron was not a patient man, but he asked for nothing that I had not offered.  “What would you have me consider?”

Agron’s gaze lowered to my mouth, but his expression swiftly hardened.  Resolute and with immovable intent.  When he looked into my eyes again, he said, “I would have you live.”

“Then offer instruction in wrestling.”  I said this loudly enough for Duro to overhear.  To ensure that he did, I sent a quick glance his way.

His dark eyes were dancing with mirth.  Perhaps at the way his older brother was tying himself into a convoluted knot to please me.  “Following evening meal, we shall see it done.  And tonight you shall tumble Agron from bench, eh, brother?”

This time, Agron did not stay his impulse.  He lurched over the table and snapped his fingers against Duro’s unpierced ear.  “Stupid cock.”

Duro winked at me.  “He only calls me that because he’s too addle-minded to remember his own brother’s name.”

Agron snorted.  “Duro--!”

“There it is!  The ailment comes and goes,” he amended with a flippant wave of his hand.

I was laughing too hard to contribute remarks, but they did not appear to require my participation.  My thoughts turned backward to the night before and the rest I’d taken between them.  By the gods, when I had first laid eyes upon them, I had not for a moment thought they would welcome me as a brother, allow me into the circle of their kinship, care whether slumber found me or not, or listen to my rambling and halting words on what haunted me.  All of this and they yet shared knowledge of fighting.

What did I offer in exchange?  Pithy recitations and such -- the world as it appeared according to Rome.

Among other slaves, exchanges of goods and favors had been equal.  A business transaction or investment.  Payment due.

Even the gifts of education from my first dominus had been meant to benefit another rather than myself.  When I had learned that I would soon be sold, I had been given additional training in the manner of attending to sexual desires.  Not for my own comfort and enjoyment, of course, but to ensure that I did not allow myself to be excessively damaged and find myself unable to sufficiently please my new dominus or domina.  Perhaps all of these skills had lent aid in my having gained secure position within a household, but there was more to life than status and protection.

There was family.  Equality.  Choice.

That did not mean my life was now comfortable.  My skin was mottled with bruises and scrapes.  The brand upon my arm yet burned despite having cooled.  It was just as well I could not see my own face -- I’d been struck with shield and fist so many times over the past weeks that I doubted Chadara would recognize me.

Should our paths ever cross again.

A nudge to my arm woke me from my dazed reflections.  “What thoughts take you?” Agron desired to know.

I could only shake my head in wonder.  “Generosity such as this -- what you both freely offer -- it was a thing unknown to me in my life before.”

Duro squinted, pointing his spoon at me.  “Pretty words will not gentle our instruction.  You asked for wrestling, little brother.”

Agron nodded, lips curving into a boyish grin.  “You will receive wrestling.”

_****What would you both receive?** ** _

I did not say the words.  I did not need to.  I already knew their answer.  Unbelievable as it was.

For the afternoon drills, Rabanus shoved the blunted spear back into my grasp and glared Duro into surrendering his usual spot on my right.  My German brother deigned to find a new place only after looking to me and then Agron for either approval or simple acknowledgment of his departure.

Regardless, I had no objections.  I would do whatever necessary to guarantee that Rabanus believed me worthy of time and effort.  Following completion of exercises, the man set me to task on memorizing a different combination of blocks and blows, testing me periodically in between his own sparring matches until my arms were too weak to block his attacks and I had to resort to dodging.

“Beam,” he commanded and because I could only agree that my body yet lacked strength, I returned the spear to weapons rack and took up the mindless task of hauling wooden weight back and forth across the yard.

My arms twitched, cramped, and throbbed so badly at evening meal that I honestly could not hold my spoon steady.  Wisely, Agron did not offer to feed me.  Rather, he rubbed my arms in a brusque massage of friction.  He then pressed his thumbs into either side of my neck and spine, from base of skull to waist, making three passes before returning to my arms for a second round of gentle “scrubbing.”

He ended with my hands held in each of his, fingers lightly kneading my palms.  “And now?” he checked.

I nodded, smiling with relief.  “Gratitude.”

“None accepted.”

I opened my mouth to protest.

Duro cut in, hand raised in warning.  “Take his word on the matter.”

With brows arched, I confirmed to Agron, “Every opportunity?”

He chuckled, looking far too pleased with himself.  “Perhaps.  Or I may have measured muscle strength and spine flexibility for advantage in wrestling.”

I gaped as Duro chortled, nearly choking on his stew.

Agron was bluffing.  I was sure.  “Hm.  Yes, should you underestimate me, you will find yourself absent excuse for failure.”

Agron’s eyes -- almost blue in the dusk -- narrowed.  His face pushed so close to mine our noses nearly bumped as he promised, dark and low, “I will not fail.”

This time, I was sure the thrumming deep in my belly was not dread but anticipation.

Duro shook his head, laughing at us in silence.

I finished eating and took time to stretch slowly.  When the food had settled in my belly, I nodded to Agron and we returned to the sand.  Duro slouched against a pole nearby, stating his intent to ensure a fair contest, but I believed his true purpose was to have the best view should I actually cause Agron difficulty.

“Hands up,” Agron directed through a beaming smile.  “Lead with right or left foot.”

I copied his pose.

“Head down, shoulders back -- yes, good.  Shift weight to balls of feet.”

I did.

From beneath the balcony overhang, deep in the hall, I could hear chuckles and laughter aimed in our direction.  Someone -- Hamilcar, perhaps -- was calling out odds.

“The goal is simple: get inside guard and pin opponent.”

I nodded.

Duro laughed, “Fuck the gods, this ought to be good.  Begin!”

Agron’s long arm swiped at me.  I ducked, then batted the other arm aside.  We circled each other, a familiar dance.

Suddenly, he launched toward me.  I grabbed his arm with both hands, pulled him closer as I spun around, tucked myself under his bulk and heaved with my legs.  It was a maneuver I’d seen Crixus use.  It had proved effective against Duro.  It now proved the same against his older brother.

He tumbled over my shoulder and landed on his back in the sand, blinking up at me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Duro’s jaw drop.  There was a roar from our observers.  I kept my eyes on Agron.  He rolled onto hands and knees.  I wasted no time: I slammed into him from the side, one arm hooked under his, and toppled him onto his back again.

“Do my eyes fucking deceive?” Duro shouted, aghast.

They did not, but I had already used my advantages and now Agron would put his strength to work.  He did not disappoint.  He rolled, tugging me in his wake and I found myself spread eagle on my back, caged beneath him.

He gazed down at me, far too pleased with himself.

I delivered a haughty look.  “And now you will use teeth to subdue opponent?”

As expected, he opened his mouth to chomp threateningly on the air.  I used the opportunity to throw sand in his face.

He sputtered.

I squirmed, wiggling an elbow beneath his arm and jabbing ribs--

He twitched away from the dig and I pulled myself even further under his torso before twisting my body open, shoving with my full strength and leading with my shoulder.

He skidded a mere hand’s width in the sand.  My far leg was still trapped beneath his meaty thigh.  “Fucking German giant,” I spat.  Grabbing for his belt at back of waist to keep from getting dragged back to the sand again, I managed enough clearance to lever an elbow around his neck in a half choke-hold.

Someone whistled.  A couple of someones.

Duro was still laughing.

Agron grabbed for my arms and straightened up.  I held on until both his knees left the sand, then I twisted out of his grasp and dropped.  My knee landed on his foot--

“Fuck!” he yelped.

I hooked my hands around his knees, lurched backward, digging my feet into the sand.

He fell with a mighty _****thud!****_   Once more, I’d gotten him flat on his back.

He was laughing.

So was I, actually.  “Duro!  How do I fucking pin him?”

“How would I know?  I’ve never managed it!”

“Fuck!”

In the next instant, Agron’s long legs wrapped around my arms and torso.  His hips flexed and we rolled again only this time he gained perch upon my chest.  My elbows were pinned against my sides and--fuck!

He crossed his arms over his chest -- the smug shit -- and grinned down at me.  His teeth were especially white in contrast to his sand-dusted face.  “Well, little man?”

I snarled, kicking up with my knees against his back, but the blows were too weak to budge him.  Perhaps if I braced one foot and--

“FUCK!” I screamed, agony ripping through my left calf.

“Nasir?”

“Missio!  Fucking missio!”

The weight pressing me down disappeared.  I could move my arms but merely dug my fingers into the sand as my spine arched and pure fire tore through my leg.  Everything clenched, compacted, my toes curled up and--fuck--the muscle would rip right off of my bones!

Hands.  A firm grasp on my leg.  I hissed through gritted teeth at Duro.  He pulled and the air shot out of my lungs.  My ears filled with the rush of blood and my jaw ached, teeth grinding together.

“Do not fight it,” Agron was saying, arm banded across my chest to keep me from curling up.

I jerked, twisted, twitched my entire body and found that the pain lessened if I pushed down through my heel.

“Now you’ve got it!” Duro encouraged and the sounds of braying laughter from the fucks in the hall flooded my ears.  I could breathe.  I could think.  I could curse… which I promptly did.

“Goatfucking shit!”  I tilted my head back against Agron’s shoulder and glared at him.  Hard.  “I almost had you.”

He snorted, chuckled, beamed.  “Is that so?”

“Yes, by the gods, I had fucking plan!”

Duro, still massaging my calf, crumpled over with incessant giggles.  I thought about kicking him in the head with my other foot, but doing so would risk another seizure.

“I would like to know this plan,” Agron declared.  “Show me -- another day.”

“I fucking will,” I grumbled, hating that I’d been interrupted.  Hating that I would have to wait to follow through.  Hating that the strength of my body did not yet match that of my will.

But, would it ever?  Even if I were as muscled as Agron, would it be enough?

I doubted it.

“You two were cut from same fucking cloth,” Duro appraised.  When both Agron and I glared expectantly at him, he snorted out, “You cannot fucking pace yourselves.”

I huffed.  At my back, Agron’s chest rose and fell with an abrupt sigh of exasperation.  Out of sight from the men still chuckling and shaking their heads at us -- well, at _****me****_  -- Agron’s fingers gently caught in my hair, rubbing against my sweaty scalp behind my ear.

My entire body shuddered and went limp in his arms.  Duro looked up in question, his eyes focusing on the movements of Agron’s hand, and his lips quirked.

“No fucking tonight,” he chastised us quietly.  “Lest Nasir trigger another cramp.”

Agron’s fingers curled, nails lightly pressing little crescents into the back of my neck.  So lightly.

I pointed a finger at Duro, “Did I not promise to wait for you to lay hands on fucking coin?”

My back bounced against Agron’s chest, jarred by his breathy laughter.

I commanded Duro: “Help me up, ungrateful brother.  I would walk.”

“You would fall,” he retorted on a laugh.

“I would prove you wrong!”

“Gods save us,” Agron groaned.  “All right.  Up you go.”

Keeping my left leg relaxed, I curled the right underneath me.  When I was ready, I gave a nod.  Agron started to rise, allowing me to clutch his arms and push myself upright.  I gained my feet without incident and tested my left leg.  It twinged.  I shifted my weight back and forth until the jumpy muscles settled.

“Fuck the gods,” Duro mumbled as I slowly ambled toward the edge of the hall and the jeering commiseration I would have to wade through to get to the baths.  “If all house slaves stood as fierce as you, Rome would fucking crumble.”

I startled at Duro’s muttered words, glad that they had not reached beyond the three of us.  Agron stiffened and our gazes met.

“Romans have always been wary of arming house slaves,” I realized with epiphany-like suddenness.

Grinning a fierce, terrible smile filled with pride and passion, Agron agreed: “For good fucking reason.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m using sassy!Nasir from Spartacus: War of the Damned, Episode 1 as a model for this Brotherhood!Nasir. I mean, Nasir’s confidence grows in leaps and bounds (off-camera) between Season 2 Episode 10 and Season 3 Episode 1. In this fic, graduating to a gladiator-in-training in the Brotherhood has a similar effect. He’s learned the rules of ludus life (more or less) by now and he’s earned a place for himself. But, being the newest recruit, Nasir isn’t quite at the point where he’s ready to pick a fight with a bigger guy (I’m thinking of when he stands up to Brictius for Castus -- Season 3 Episode 7, I think) so he goes to a lot of trouble not to antagonize Rhaskos or Rabanus. While Nasir has gained acceptance, that doesn’t necessarily guarantee him a lot of respect (or status for that matter).
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts and worries and hopes and wishes and dreams for this next installment!! I would LOVE TO HEAR ALL THE THINGS. (^_^) 
> 
> Oh, and I guess if you happened to like something in this first chapter, then yeah hit me with that, too. (^_~)


	2. Brothers of the Arena

 

Tension.

Silence punctured with strained words and fierce scowls, cocksure smiles and puffed up chests, resigned sighs and slumped shoulders.  The grates of cell doors loomed larger, the guards more distant, a man’s next breath both heavier and more needful than the one before.

Capua’s next gladiatorial games had been announced.

A papyrus filled with handwriting -- Doctore’s most likely -- was being passed from hand to hand and the corridors were congested with grumbles, grins, and back-slapping.

I would have set eyes upon the assignments at leisure when no other hands demanded it.  We had hours yet before the guards would come through and lock the cells and cage doors for the night; there was no rush.

Except, apparently, Agron and Duro felt otherwise.  They shared a look -- a clash of anxiety and anticipation -- and quickened their pace toward the epicenter of rippling upset.  I would be there as well.  They were my brothers and I would be there with them for this.

They shouldered past a disgruntled Fortis and sneering Liscus.  I easily twisted between the experienced gladiators to keep pace.

The papyrus was pressed into Duro’s grasp.  He read through the names and shook his head in disgust, “Goatfuck.  I knew it.”

Agron snatched the paper.  I pressed on his shoulder and he obligingly angled it for my eyes.

“Why do you fucking bleat?” he retorted, grinning with smug relief.  “You fight by my side, brother!”

Duro ignored the gentle, chiding pat to his cheek.  “Doctore likens me to a suckling babe.  I could prove myself alone!”

I flicked the papyrus from Agron’s fingers and scanned the list for myself, checking it again line by line just to be certain: Spartacus, Varro, Rabanus, Rhaskos, Donar, Fulco, Pollux, Tychos, and -- slotted into one of the earliest matches -- Agron **_and_**  Duro.  Their names were side by side: they would enter the arena together; they would battle two against two.  Thank the gods.

My name was nowhere to be found.

I would not be present for their battle upon the sands, but my brothers would have each other.

One or both of them might fall or suffer wounds, yet I was being given the promised time to continue training.

Cruelty and kindness.  Only the gods -- or Romans -- could devise one act to ensure both.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the sudden rise of Agron’s chest as he drew breath to return heated words.

I quickly punched Duro’s arm hard enough to startle him.  “They do not throw babes into the arena.”

“If not babes then brothers,” he muttered, revealing a flicker of relief amid his frustration.

“A rarity,” I insisted.  “Your match will be all the more memorable for it.  Doctore clearly believes you worthy of grand promotion.”  I could feel Agron’s bemused stare, but I bullied Duro with a final declaration, “This is a blessing, you goat-loving oaf!”

Agron joined in: “Our first fight in the fucking arena.  I would stand with my brother.”

Duro grinned, hesitant pleasure creeping upon him.  “Truly?”

Agron rolled his eyes, nodded.

And then Duro was all joy and excitement and smiles, grasping his brother’s arms.  He whooped gleefully.

The papyrus was jerked from my grasp.  Claimed by another gladiator.  I cared not.  I dived into their enthusiasm head-first, wrapped myself up in the role.  I would not let doubt and fear taint this.  If Agron and Duro were meant to fall, then I would have them spend what time remained inundated with joy.  It was a familiar sensation: to know what was required of me and provide it.

Duro’s hand smacked against my back and shook me from left to right beneath the arm Agron curled over my shoulders.  I rocked between them, embracing them at waist and grinning.

And then I remembered the date of the games.

“That is tomorrow!” I blurted.

“It fucking is!” Duro agreed.

I belatedly realized that the last assignment, days after my arrival, had been delivered in a similar manner.  Selected gladiators of Capua had faced the best from Pompeii.  Little forewarning had been given.  Donar had explained such was customary in this ludus following incidents that had seen more than one primus-bound gladiator miss opportunity due to malicious training injury or blatant manipulation.  The crowd would have heard the names of the men to compete perhaps a full week in advance.  No one would be pleased if their favorite was suddenly replaced.

Agron and Duro could talk of nothing else in the baths.  My nightly lectures were also suspended as they compared their recollections of stories told by other fighters of battles in the arena.  The sort of men they might face, the weapons their opponents might wield, the strategies that might bring victory; I listened, Agron’s arm occasionally brushing my elbow and shoulder as he gestured expansively.

I focused on pushing pride out through my smile, feeding their confidence.  Overall, less than half of matches featuring gladiators pitted against their equals ended in death, but this fact provided no comfort.  Though the primus was the only event in which death was consistently guaranteed, the opening matches were often bloody and brutal: new gladiators or those of low rank and status fell quickly upon the sands to opponents with little patience or experience with showmanship, men whose purpose was set solely upon survival.

Agron and Duro would face such men on the morrow.

In the end, it was I who ordered them to close mouths and fucking sleep.  As if I were a scolding parent.  “Settle to rest and I will soothe ears with a tale,” I wryly bargained, wondering at how quickly these enormous, capable men had turned into excitable children.

“Father Nasir!” Duro called.

I countered, “You admit you are a boy, then?”

“Grown men also have fathers!  A fact well-known by any with fucking sense.”

With a snort, I revealed, “I am not so long in years as to have fathered a grown man.  Who is absent sense now?”

Agron laughed, low and soft, stretching out along his side upon the bench.  I braced on the edge, ass tucked against the welcoming curve of his hips, and told the story of Jason and his gods-aided revenge against the nefarious uncle who had claimed kingship over his homeland and imprisoned Jason’s noble father.

Shortly after Jason confronted his uncle and was set to task of acquiring the golden fleece -- but before the mighty ship for his Argonauts was crafted -- Duro’s first snore punched through my words.  Agron’s belly shuddered with a silent laugh, the casual hand upon my back now gliding with purpose.

“Gratitude,” he rumbled, soft and quiet.

I arched a brow.  “The tale has not finished.”

“You thrust aside fear and favor us with your smile.”

“Hm.”  I leaned down and braced myself above him.  Studying his eyes, the contrast between pupil and iris so clearly defined yet the latter incessantly mystified in its range of colors, I informed, “My smile will be well-practiced for your return.”

Two hands framed my face, fingers sliding and massaging against my skin.  His lips beckoned my gaze.  I waited for him to draw me closer or lift himself up and fit our pieces together.  We would fit.  I knew it as I knew the fine bristles of his crudely trimmed cheeks and the shape of his wild grin and the intimidating sheen of his strong teeth.

Agron murmured, “Would you act as brother to Duro in my stead?”

For a moment, his words made no sense.

And then they did.

I hissed, grabbed Agron’s face and snarled, “No.  He can fucking care for himself.”

“He needs--”

“He needs you, you ridiculous German,” I insisted.  “And I need--I…”

“Speak.”

I could not.  “I will meet you in the afterlife.”

“No.”

“If you are dead, you will not be able to stop me.”

“Fuck,” he exhaled.  His hands moved, petting my hair from my eyes and thumbing the corners of my mouth.  “You would insist I live.”

“I would fucking guarantee it.”

His lips quirked.  “Such refined speech.”

“Do I place blame at Duro’s feet or yours?”

“Neither.  Place nothing at the feet of another, most especially not yourself.  Nasir, your pride is…”

“It is…?”

“It fucking is.”  By the gods, his passion burned hot enough to blister skin.  “I would fight through Pluto’s gates to return to you.”

“Then provide demonstration: set mind to task and hands to purpose and on the morrow take your place, gladiator.”

Agron’s smile was easily the most incredible sight I had ever witnessed, felt deep in my heart, and loved with my entire being.  Whoever I was, whoever I could be as Nasir, I would never not want this man.

I lowered my lips to his chest.  Meeting his gaze through my brows, I pressed my mouth to the center of his torso.  He sucked in a harsh breath, torch light bouncing off of his raised scar.  I kissed that as well, painted its ridge with the tip of my tongue.  Fuck the gods, he tasted divine.

“You will return.”  I pressed the words into his form.  “Or I will find you, Agron of the lands east of the Rhine.”

He smiled, slow and sweet, surrounding me with a single gaze.  “What would you do with me once captured in your net?”

“I would free you,” I breathed, imagining a warrior, a lover, this man unshackled and untamed.  The sight of him would be worth a lifetime, several lifetimes.

His mouth turned down.  His fierce frown and gleaming eyes: I had overwhelmed him again.  “Do not ask me to rest tonight.  I would look upon you until I take my leave.”

I shook my head.  “You must rest.”  I stroked over his heart, inhaled sharply against his skin.  “So that you may better watch over your brothers.”

His brows hitched.  His fingers tunneled into my hair.  “We are brothers, you and I?”

“Tonight, yes.  Upon your return, we may be more.”

Agron’s jaw tensed.  His teeth clenched.  “You provide ample motivation to return victorious.”

“As intended.”

His brow creased.  Confusion and suspicion struggling for footholds.  “This is a ploy, then?”

If only it were.  I shook my head and allowed my body to blanket him.  One knee slid between his and his breath was sudden and sharp, shallow pants.  “Fight,” I told, “and return to my arms.  They open for only you.”

He shuddered.  “Nasir…”

“Shh.  I am here.  Rest, Agron.”

One hand fell to my hip.  The other roamed slowly over my back.  I allowed myself to be guided into his warmth, his strength, his scent and beauty and gentleness.  How could a man of such savage passions be so fucking delicate?  He was, though.  I could feel it in his touch.  I ached with the pressure and weight of affection for him, but I bit the tumbling words back.  I would not allow him to fall upon the sands and greet the Ferryman with a happy smile.  If Agron desired my heart, he would earn it with every breath taken.  And then he would earn it yet again.

His lips pressed gently against my brow once, twice, a third time.  His palms -- warm and rough -- eased over my bare skin, chafing and mesmerizing.  His cock swelled against my hip and I had never wanted to lay my hands upon another with intent to pleasure-ache-wreck with passion as much as I did in this moment.  But to merely attend to his cock would be a hollow experience.  I sought more from him than quick gratification.

I lifted my mouth, dragging my lips along his scruffy throat, and nipped at the lobe of his ear.  A perfect ear.  How could a mortal man be so perfect?  I would suspect him fashioned by the gods themselves if he were not so spectacularly flawed.  Though, even the gods were not perfect, and when they erred, the results were just as blindingly magnificent.

“Give all that you are,” I breathed against his ear, “and see every desire satisfied.”

His throat clicked, dry and mindless, as he made effort to swallow.  “I am yours.”

“And when I finally stand as your equal in all things, you will have all of me.”

Agron tucked his nose down against my neck and inhaled deep and fast.  “Speak not of equals in skill,” he purred.

“Then what measure would allow us both pride and purpose?”

His mouth upon my skin, lips skimming my ear, he rumbled, “This--”  A warm palm slid down and pressed over the center of my chest.  Over my heart.  “Take measure here.”

His lips tickled beneath my jaw.  My eyes slid closed.  I shivered.

His hips thrust, a helpless twitch accompanied by a breathy moan: “This belongs only to us.”  They were not mere words; they were movements of lips upon skin, manifestation of heart’s desire, proof of unbroken spirit.  I mirrored his movement, rocking once.  His fingers tensed, but his hands did not clench, did not clutch, did not bruise.

So fucking gentle.  I would never feel another touch like Agron’s.  Never.

We moved against each other, generating heat, our blood sparkling on the inside of our skin, slow and measured late into the night.  I possessed no recollection of succumbing to exhaustion, cock still swollen and need unsatisfied, but I opened my eyes to the sound of key grating within iron lock.

I lifted my head and noted Agron’s eyes, already framed by lashes and colored dull gray in the dim torch light.  “We must dress and prepare,” he breathed.

I nodded and carefully removed myself from his arms, my hands sliding over biceps, elbows, forearms, brand.  I stood, grasping his hands.  He needed no aid in rising to his feet, but he extended the pretense, sharing secret caresses with my unsteady fingers.  Still holding one of my hands in his own, he stretched toward his brother, waking Duro with a firm shake, dodging the reflexive swipe of arm and fist with ease.

“Duro.  Open eyes.  We are for the arena.”

“Arena?  Fuck.”  He squinted and sat up.  “Right.  We fight side by side today, brother.”

“We do.”  A hand upon Duro’s shoulder and a shared smile: I was yet tethered to them by the fingers curled between mine.

“Nasir?”

“Here,” I said, moving around Agron’s bulk to place a hand on Duro’s ever-matted hair.

With a grin, he gestured me close and pressed his forehead to mine.  “I will hear the rest of Jason’s tale.”

“Yes,” I agreed.  “You will.  The greatest adventures are yet to come.”

Placing a hand on Agron’s shoulder, he lurched to his feet.  With a grin and a sigh, he stepped into the corridor.  Offering us a moment of privacy, Duro kept his back to the cage grating, waiting for Doctore and the guards to gather the other gladiators who would join them on the day’s journey.

I turned to Agron.  Smiled weakly.  Searched for words that I had not yet given voice--

His hand upon my neck.  His gaze upon my face.  He leaned down, hunching to bring his mouth level to mine, and pressed a soft, explosive kiss to my lips.

Gods save me.

It was chaste and sweet, salty and real -- Agron’s nose jutting into my cheek and pressing lengthwise beside mine -- and this kiss was so filled with his heart and yearnings and simple offering that I forgot to breathe.

And then the warmth and weight lifted from my tingling lips.  I blinked open my eyes and the look upon his face pulled every hope from each dark, dusty corner of my stillborn heart.  I no longer felt tempted to ask what colors his eyes held.  They held him: Agron.  A name to explain all his shifting, beautiful aspects.  A range of color and expression and strength.

My lips trembled with the fear of losing him -- our first kiss might be our last; fuck the gods, this stood as the reason for not giving in to my own desires! -- but his gaze pulled an answer from me that I had not strength enough to deny.

I reached and trailed a fingertip over Agron’s nose, his cheek, his lips.   _ **Your smile is beautiful and I will have all of you and… yes,**_  I told with helpless curve of lips.   _ **Whether you return to me or not.  Yes.**_

He took my answer.  Bathed in it and emerged glowing with vitality.

“Agron, we must move,” Duro whispered, back still presented.  The sound of footsteps drew closer.

Agron straightened, those eyes flickering with something soft but impossible to kill: a roiling cloud, a prevailing mist, a shimmering lake.  This--yes.  I would send him to the arena indomitable.

His fingertips skimmed across my collarbone and down my arm as he moved toward the open door and his gaze lingered until he was forced to present his back.  Only then could I breathe again -- one more breath.  I would only need one; he would return and I would find the next and then the one after that.  I had only to hold onto the moment until his return.

Out of sight of the guard and experienced gladiators who now approached, I touched the center of Agron’s back, brushed fingertips along his spine.  I tapped Duro’s shoulder in reminder, not for him -- Duro had a brother to live for -- but for myself.  To prove that he stood as real as Agron, that I had not imagined either of them.

I said with bravado, “I will not be so accommodating should you attempt to leave me behind next time.”

Agron shuddered a sigh that might have contained one of his incomparable chuckles.

Duro laughed, startled.

And then Spartacus and Varro appeared, leading the way to the armory.  The guard locked the cage door and my brothers were gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I slightly tweaked the dialog/reactions between Agron and Duro when they first find out that they’re going to fight together in the arena. While Duro still wants to prove himself outside of his brother’s shadow, he and Agron have also grown a lot closer through their teamwork in preparing Nasir for his test: they took a house slave under their collective wing and managed to succeed in teaching him enough to be a promising fighter. That’s quite the accomplishment. So, Duro’s not quite as hellbent on shining in the spotlight. His priorities have shifted somewhat. (More on this L A T E R.)
> 
> And by now, you've probably clued in to my headcanon regarding Agron: he's very tactile with people he's close to, but he is not prone to manhandling Nasir. (I mean, hell, we don't even see Agron grabbing Nasir's hair until that fateful "goodbye" in Season 3 Episode 8!! Every touch these two shared on screen just illustrated (to me) Agron's respect and devotion to Nasir and Nasir's pure happiness at being able to experience a lover's touch on his own terms.) This is just what I get out of watching the TV series, so it's a pretty prevalent theme in this fic BECAUSE I LOVE IT SO EFFING MUCH.
> 
> Also, you may have noticed in this chapter that pretty much all of Nasir's ludus "allies" are headed for the arena. Um... yikes? (But srsly, you can trust me. I will definitely place warnings at the top of chapters that contain explicit content or major triggers.)


	3. Gauls of the Ludus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friendly reminder of the tags for this fic: "The Gauls are shits" & "Nasir runs circles around EVERYONE"
> 
> I hope you enjoy the update. (^_^)

 

Shadows.

Gloom and hush and sputtering torch light.

I stood alone, my hands clutching the grate, staring after my brothers.

Until this moment, I had not grasped how dark my life was without Agron and Duro in my sight.  Even the brazier-trapped flames seemed to dim in their wake.  Silence settled with additional weight.  Lungs grew heavy and throat tight.

By the time I was released from the cage to begin the day, the ludus gate had long since closed behind the men bound for the arena.  I had not even glimpsed Agron and Duro in their armor.

Fuck the gods.

I had no one friendly to train with today.  Without Doctore in the yard or Batiatus upon the balcony, most men passed the day as they liked, gambling, napping upon benches, lazing in lack of purpose.  That way lay madness, I was sure.  I claimed my training armor, a blunted spear, and a palus.  I practiced the drills Rabanus had ordered me to master.  I kicked at the wooden dummy opponent, a strike to “knee.”  Then I kicked higher, a blow to “pelvis.”  Then I braced my spear handle-first into the sand and struck with my entire body, curling my arms, crunching my belly, and smacking both feet into the chest of an imaginary opponent.  I assaulted my enemy from all angles, testing distance required.

 _ ** **Balance,****_  I reminded myself.

Doctore and Rabanus would throw me over cliff’s edge if I forgot their teachings:

A defeated opponent could yet kill.

A man absent balance is a man soon meant for death.

All could be summarized in four words that I’d received on my first day of training: keep sense of surroundings.

Fuck.  Agron…  Fuck.

Eventually, Fortis collected a wooden shield and sword and called me to spar against him -- “Come, little man.  Let us pass time.” -- and we bantered back and forth across the empty yard.  Liscus joined us shortly thereafter and showed me how to sweep a man’s feet out from under him with the handle of my spear.  Fortis complained of the advantage I gained from it, but he did not call a halt.

“You fuck both German brothers together or one by one?” Liscus wondered idly as Fortis advanced upon me with a series of arm-jarring strikes.

I grunted, “At the moment, I am fighting.  Or making best attempt.  Apologies if my actions do not adequately convey intent.”

Fortis snorted.  “Some mistake fighting for fucking.”

My grin was hard, sharp.  “A confusion that may prove deadly.”

Chuckling, Fortis withdrew and we circled each other, taking a brief break and considering strategy, weaknesses, resolve.

Liscus persisted, “If neither brother returns?”

I wished the fuck dead for giving thought voice.  “I will continue to fight until I fall on the sands.”

“So sure that you’re bound for the arena?” Fortis needled.

“Should I strike it from mind, it will surely come to pass.  Is that not the way of the gods?”

Liscus huffed with amusement, “You speak fucking truth, little man.”

I lunged at Fortis, stabbing, sweeping, and blocking.  A blow to the man’s wrist saw him fumble the practice sword.  It dropped to the sand but , instead of hurrying forward to deliver a lethal strike, I spun the spear toward Liscus, drawing up short a hand’s width from the man’s temple.

He startled.  I stood sole recipient of his focus.

I said, “I was brought to this ludus to fight, not fuck.  I assure you I possess no confusion regarding which is which.”  I stared at him.  He stared back.  Smirked.

Turning, I countered the blow Fortis would have landed upon my back had I forsaken sense of surroundings.

_****Agron.** ** _

I was trying very hard not to think of him or Duro.  Or the fact that Spartacus, Varro, and Donar all stood within the arena’s embrace this day.  The very motion of the sun slowed as it climbed the sky.

The day was made longer still with the absence of Rabanus and Doctore -- the only other men I might have sought fair treatment from.  Not only were my friends in peril, but I myself stood absent allies.  I had every intention of remaining on the sands until their return.  The cells and corridors of the ludus held too many shadows: among fellow house slaves and surrounded by Roman masters, the shadows provided welcome retreat; in the presence of guards and men trained to seize every advantage offered, the same nooks became treacherous snares.

Perhaps these men would not seek opportunity.  Perhaps they held no interest in a “little man.”  We shared a brotherhood, an arrangement I had thus far found satisfaction with.  I would not test them, bait their frustration and boredom, and risk change.  The simple act of remaining out-of-doors would see temptation absent.

As I was yet new to the spear, Fortis was able to grapple me to the sands several times, but I rolled quickly to my feet and he did not pursue.  Eventually, he tired of my novice efforts and challenged Liscus with sword and shield, murmillo to murmillo.

A drink of water saw me refreshed and I immediately pivoted back to the sand--

Only to find Crixus blocking my path with a glower.

I froze.  Waited for him to break words.  When none were forthcoming, I passed the ladle toward him.  He sneered.

“You reek of German dog.”

My brows rose briefly.  As I returned the ladle to the water pot, my mind raced through all available options.  “I find their company preferable to that of my own countryman.”

Crixus stood unmoved.  “That you turn your back on your own kin, I stand unsurprised.  Such is the way of Syrians, is it not?”

“I have no words to break with those whose ambition flows like blood in veins,” I cautiously allowed.  “Nor with any man infected by greed, regardless of homeland.”

“A quality you share?  A creature easily recognizes one of its kind.”

“I know a Roman mind when I see one,” I freely confessed.  “I have devoted much time and effort to the study of their whims.”

Crixus shifted.  “You do not answer fucking question.”

“There is no answer to be given that would satisfy you.”

“I would judge your claim.”

I examined him, reading his intent even as the murmurs of conversation and the rattle of dice quieted within the hall.  I could press Crixus to state his challenge plainly, but I sensed it would result in my back pressed to wall, leaving little room to maneuver.  Yet the greater attempt made to manipulate our discussion, the more I would prove myself a treacherous, shifty shit.

Lifting my chin, I remarked, “Men of this ludus are loyal to you for good reason.  A champion who stands--”

Crixus struck, wrapping one large hand around my throat, nails digging into my flesh.  I met his fury with a hard stare and a snarl.

“You know not what manner of man is a true champion!”

“I know that the honor, once earned, cannot be parted from a man.  Crowds are fickle; skill and persistence are not.”

The Gaul’s head tilted.  “What do you know of honor?”

“An honorable man presents example for his kinsmen and holds all, including himself, to standard.”  Surely, Crixus saw himself as such a man.

The leader of the Gauls leaned closer.  I kept my hands loosely fisted at my sides.  “By your own reasoning, Ashur would be your charge.”

Yet all were aware that I held no sway over the man.  No influence.  No formidable threats.  I answered, “By yours, I possess more honor than him.”  I glanced pointedly down to the hand still upon my throat.

“An easy claim.  A snake has more honor.”

“And a quick strike.”

The Gaul’s mouth twitched as if he might smile.

Daringly, I lifted my right hand and clasped his wrist, our brands mirroring.  “Speed is a thing well understood by an ambitious shit.  Honor confuses him, so he disregards it.  Always to his detriment.”

Crixus chuckled, low, rasping, and dark.  “Honor?  Ashur will fall to honor?”

I pointed to the truth: “He would not expect it.”

“And what of your expectations?”

I huffed a short laugh.  “Doctore’s displeasure… should I continue to neglect my training.”

Crixus growled, “Your life is mere piss and shit.”

“And yet it holds the interest of the magistrate’s son.  Batiatus seeks the father’s favor.  I am a wrecked ship caught in cross currents.”  As were all slaves of Rome… including gladiators.  The reminder danced upon my tongue.

And yet.

These men saw themselves as gods of battle.  It was not my place to disillusion them.

The Gaul smirked.  “If that is so, little dog, then you had best keep head above waves.”

With a sudden lurch, I found myself tumbling from the raised floor of the hall, striking the sand hard hip-first and rolling to my feet.  I crouched, the sound of laughter crashing over me, and shook the dust from my hair.

Well.  I had not gained any allies, but neither was I dead.  Or worse: injured.

I was satisfied with the outcome.

I returned to hauling the beam until midday meal.  I claimed the last serving and ate with my back to the wall beside cliff’s edge as the sun crested overhead and descended into afternoon.  I tried not to think about the games… but my efforts at distraction quickly faded and failed.

Agron and Duro would be fighting soon if they hadn’t begun already and it tore through my gut to imagine them entering the arena.  I could not allow the match to be painted -- blow by blow -- before my eyes, and I flatly refused to contemplate its end.  Instead, I stubbornly held to the moment in which Agron and Duro stood upon the sands, awaiting the command to begin; I grasped upon the vision of them proud in gleaming armor, whole and hale.  I clutched it tightly for far longer than their match would last.  My intent revealed: I would hold them here in mind and heart until I could hold them with arms and hands.

I ran beneath the weight of the beam until I was certain the match had ended.  Agron and Duro either lived… or they did not.

I attacked the palus with shield and sword, driving blunted blade’s edge and sharp curve of shield into my brothers’ opponents over and over.

I fetched the spear and imagined Batiatus standing opposite for every lunge and airy swish.

Darkness had begun its approach when the Veteran met my helpless anger with a pair of sparring swords and dueled me into the dust again and again.  He offered occasional corrections and I was grateful -- so fucking grateful -- to have something to focus my thoughts upon.

Until he ripped the spear from my grasp, tripped me onto my back in the sand, and grunted, “A wagon approaches.  On your feet, little man.”

I could hear it -- the crunch and rattle of wooden wheels in the rutted path.  The clatter and jangle of hooves and harness.

My entire body was covered in sand and dust, but I did not duck into the baths to rinse.

I waited, mindful of the Veteran beside me, and wondered how many of the men who had fought in the arena today had once been his pupils.  Wondered how many were returning.

The wagon shimmied to a halt.  The guards unlocked the gate.  The cart doors opened.  Spartacus and Varro emerged first.  Then Rabanus and Donar...  One by one by one until--

“Little brother!” Duro called, jogging toward me and scooping me away from the distracted welcome I was patting upon Varro’s shoulder.

“Duro!” I wheezed, letting him lift me up until my toes dangled indignantly above the ground.  He brayed right into my ear and I clutched his shoulders tighter as Agron leaped out of the cart and hurried forward with a wide grin.

He smacked Duro on the back and threw his arms around both of us, burring a whiskery, toothy kiss to my filthy cheek.

“You suffer no wounds?” I wished-remarked-commanded.

“Nothing worthy of note!” Duro assured, releasing me from his bear-like embrace to clasp forearms with Hamilcar.

Agron’s hands framed my face.  “The gods favor me, little man,” he bragged.

“Call me that again, and they will turn from you!” I laughed, already plotting my revenge.  I reached for his rough, tangled hair and pulled him down for a kiss.  His lips were soft and pliant upon my smile.

“You taste of sand,” he mumbled, grinning and nibbling.

A puff of humor burst from my lips.  “You take me for a house slave of perfumed hair and honeyed lips?”

Agron shook his head in wonder.  “I would take you however you wish.”

My pulse quickened.

Donar flicked Agron’s ear.  “To the armory, pup.”

Agron absently shoved the older German away and, stooping, kissed me once more, our lips sloppy with joy and relief and elation.

“Nasir!”

My spine straightened.  Agron and I both turned.  “Doctore?”

“See the yard cleared of weapons.”

“Yes, sir.”  I nudged Agron ahead before trotting across the sand to scoop up my discarded spear, shield, and sword.  The Veteran tossed his weapons at me as well and then I was crashing through an empty aisle in the hall toward the weapons stores.  The slap of leather straps being freed and the clank of buckles undone, the zip of laces being loosened and the thump of boots dropped: the hubbub of warriors shedding armor tumbled along the corridor from the next doorway, muted and interspersed with chuckles, weary sighs, and annoyed grunts.

I replaced my burdens upon the racks and, turning, found Agron leaning in the doorway.  Stripped of his impressive arena costume and standing in a plain, sweat-stained subligaira, he smiled.

I forgot how to breathe.

“To the baths with you!” he ordered and this was, perhaps, the first time his skin appeared to carry less filth than mine.

His lack of battle gear did, however, reveal a splatter of-- “Blood?  Whose is this?”  I grabbed for his arm, searching for broken skin.

“Neither mine nor Duro’s.”

“Unless you cling to it out of sentiment, see it cleansed from form.”

The baths echoed with boasts and laughter.  Varro heckled Rhaskos about his match.  Rabanus called Donar a shameless, embellishing cunt.  Spartacus merely smiled warmly at each of his brothers.  Wounds were minor and most matches had been won.  Health and coin.  How could men not be satisfied with that?

The room was crowded and boisterous.  I was glad the strigils were not sharp when my elbow was jostled for the fifth time.  As usual, I tended to Duro’s back and Agron cleansed mine, though Agron’s hands moved far slower than ever before, lingering and caressing, coaxing sore muscles to ease and smoothing oil over bruised skin.  I patted Duro’s shoulder, signaling that he was done, and he charged off toward the water, splashing in like the pup he was so often called.

Agron snorted at his brother’s antics.

“He held his own?” I asked, watching Donar and Hamilcar berate Duro’s youthful enthusiasm, each man wiping droplets from his own chest, their grimaces identical.

The fingers splayed upon my back tensed.  “For a time.”

“And then?”

“And then the bumbling shit lost his feet and fell.  Absent weapon.”

I looked back over my shoulder.  Agron kept his gaze fixed upon the progress of hands and strigil.  I shivered at the subtle echo of terror in his expression.

Tongue suddenly sticky and mouth dry, I asked, “Did he regain--?”

“No.  I took the life of his opponent with a thrown spear before the fuck could land fatal blow.”

Dishonorable, but the alternative was unthinkable.

Agron’s jaw clenched and I fought the inclination to look toward Duro.  My gaze was drawn briefly to my own hands before I directed quiet words over my shoulder: “A brush with death may awaken him.”

“Should that fail, a swift kick to ass will see it done.”

“From both of us, one foot to each cheek.”

Agron’s laugh was breathy, helpless, and slightly hysterical.  The strigil traced my lower back and I began to turn.  Agron’s fingers curled against my waist, holding me in place.  I met his gaze over my shoulder.  He licked his lips in a quick motion absent intent.  “This night may be our last -- the three of us together.”

“May be?”

“Duro and I have not had opportunity to speak with Doctore.  We would not leave you alone in the cage should an alternative be available.”

I reached for his left hand, threading our fingers.  “You must take rest upon pallet, Agron.  The comfort will aid your health.”

“Knowing you rest easily is of greater comfort to me.”

I... I did not know what to say.  I opened my mouth.  Closed it.

His thumbs pressed firmly into my lower back as if he might banish my unrest from lonely nights spent on stone before they even took place.  Our cage had been intended for apathetic neglect -- a box meant for savage animals of dubious worth -- but some of my greatest joys had been found within it.

When the strigil brushed against my flank absent purpose, I tugged it from between his fingers, drew breath, and said, “I would return favor.”

He smiled, slow and kind and warm, then presented his back for scraping.  This would not be the last time I would have freedom to touch his steam-heated skin, but I culled the sweat and blood and sand from him with careful hands and leisurely sweeps, thinking ahead to the coming night.

His back rose and fell with deliberate breaths.  When I finished, we rinsed our feet and joined Duro.  As Agron slid into the water beside me, I glimpsed his cock -- it hung full, heavy, thick -- and I struggled not to let my appreciation show.

By the gods, the man was of a fucking form.  Every inch of him.

“The Gauls bray like rutting asses,” Donar commented, frowning over my shoulder at one of the other stone tubs.

I sighed.

Agron’s fingers drifted against my far shoulder, his arm brushing against my back.  “Nasir?”

With a shrug, I offered, “Perhaps Fortis and Liscus report our conversation.”

“You broke words with those idiotic shits?” Agron spat.

I gave him a hard look.  “I have no intention of making enemies absent necessity.”

Duro bumped my arm.  “A sound strategy.  Too bad they’re nothing but backward, goatfucked cunts.”

Donar snorted.

Hamilcar rolled his eyes, beard twitching as he fought a smile.  “Little man here managed to part company with Crixus absent blows.  Surely you two fucks can--”

Duro sputtered, “Crixus?”

Agron tensed.  “That fucking Gaul?”

_****Was there another Crixus I had yet to meet?** ** _

No, no.  It was best not to ask.

I wiped a hand over my face.  “Gods save me,” I muttered.  “There was no Gaul fucking that I witnessed.”  I wisely did not mention Liscus’ innuendo.  “Though, yes, Crixus did break words.  To what end I’m not sure even he knows.  Perhaps out of boredom he sought a new target.”

“I will fucking skin him.”

I grabbed Agron’s thigh before he could fully pull his legs under him.  “You will fucking sit,” I hissed, jutting chin and baring teeth.

A poke against my neck; I closed my eyes and cursed.  Of course Duro would be the one to find the faint scratches from Crixus’ roughly trimmed fingernails.  There might be bruises forming from the grasp that had sent me tumbling into the yard.  Perhaps they had darkened enough to be seen in the dim light.

“And these,” Duro challenged in a humorless tone that I had never heard from him before, “are courtesy of…?”

“None of your concern.”

“Fucking Gauls,” Agron spat, eyes flashing.

“Do not test Doctore’s patience, either of you,” I bit out.  “The mines are no idle threat!”

Hamilcar blinked.  “You’ve laid eyes upon them?”

“Once.”

Donar’s brows rose.

Duro leaned closer and asked, “What manner of place is it?”

“The bowels of Tartarus.”  And that was all I would allow myself to say on it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m pretty sure the gladiators left behind would not get the day off (I think we see them sparring late in the evening as the cart returns from the arena), but I wanted to see what kind of shenanigans happened with both Oenomaus and Quintus out of the picture for a few hours.
> 
> From the veeeery little research I’ve done on Roman baths, it’s possible that the separate bath tubs would contain water of varying temperatures (i.e., cool, warm, and hot) but I’m using the separate baths as a way to reinforce the “cliques” within the ludus, and I assume the water in each tub is warm-ish. Also, given how filthy the men are after a day of training, they get the oil-and-strigil treatment either first thing or immediately after a superficial rinsing rather than in the middle of a long, drawn-out bathing routine. (I’ve read that bath patrons would enjoy the cool and warm baths before entering the hot “sauna” and then get an oil massage and strigil treatment before returning to hot, warm, and cool baths again, in that order. I suppose there’s some margin for personal preference allowed despite strict, cultural protocol. Just like in a modern-day Japanese “onsen.”)
> 
> Kudos and comments keep me motivated... y'know, just in case you were wondering. (^_~)


	4. A True Champion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: sexytimes
> 
> Also, this is a chapter-within-a-chapter. Indented text (between Nasir's thoughts ending in ellipses "...") indicates a flashback.

 

Fury.

I would kill Duro for this.  He had given no indication that he would attempt something so fucking foolish.  Had he?

I thought back to the evening before…

> A humble banquet, evening meal delayed until those returning from the arena could partake, was laid out in the hall.  Wine flowed, watery and sour, through the unlocked ludus.  I drank too quickly, gulping past the unpalatable taste and escaping into the pleasant hum of inebriation.
> 
> Duro and Agron shared accounts of the matches they’d witnessed from behind the grated gates at the arena.  Spartacus offered praise for the brothers’ skill, yet his words were carefully chosen to reprimand Duro for his mistakes and Agron for his breach of conduct.  More than once, Agron opened his mouth, fiery rage in his eyes, only to subside at the champion’s steely gaze.
> 
> I kicked Duro under the table.
> 
> “What was that in aid of?” my pup of a brother yelped.
> 
> “The victor is the one who regains fucking feet and purpose,” I reminded him.  “Give demonstration or I shall provide additional motivation!”
> 
> His face blanked before lips curved into a smirk.  “As you motivate my brother?”
> 
> Both Agron and I kicked him then.
> 
> Duro bleated, winced, and laughed.  “No?  Perhaps Donar will give soft kisses and whispers of love?”
> 
> “Donar,” the man in question rumbled, “will harden that soft head of yours.”  He thumped Duro on the top of his skull with a fist as he passed by, seeking to refill the empty cup in hand.
> 
> Wine quickly made fools of all of us.  I had gone too long without and succumbed with embarrassing swiftness to its ground-tilting embrace.  Agron escorted me back to the cage where I attempted again and again to explain that I could not continue Jason’s story without Duro present and expressed apologies for the tale’s lack of elephants.
> 
> “You might add one,” Agron suggested, grinning at my boneless slump and aimless gesticulating.
> 
> “Only one?  His heart would ache of loneliness.”  I looked into Agron’s eyes -- such remarkable eyes -- and drew breath to inquire of their true color--
> 
> Agron’s lush, wine-tinted mouth caught mine.
> 
> Oh.
> 
> _****Oh.** ** _
> 
> I grabbed for his neck and shoulder, my jaw slackening to invite him deeper.  The hot slide of his tongue and puffs of harsh breath, his fingers trembling against my throat, jaw, and ears, my own hands grasping him close by the back of neck and then five curious fingers questing down his chest… belly… below waist.
> 
> He broke away, robbed of breath at my touch, and I was drunk both from him and upon him, but sober to intent and need and…  By the gods, this man’s cock was… it had been fucking sculpted by the gods.  I withdrew slowly, tracing his texture with mere fingertips.
> 
> “Would you have my touch?” I whispered, placing a hand upon his chest.  I pressed.  A subtle push.  A test.
> 
> He readily allowed space between us and my desire spiked, sudden and choking.  This man, who could easily subdue me, responded to my wishes absent hesitation and with little regard to his own desires.  This man effortlessly earned my trust and captured my heart again and again.
> 
> “I would have you.  In whatever manner pleases you,” he breathed, eyelids made heavy with lust and eyes gleaming with hazy heat.
> 
> Fuck.  “We must wait.  Until your brother sleeps soundly.”
> 
> Agron grinned at my promise and visibly gritted his teeth at my meaning -- the celebration in the ludus would stretch on for hours yet.  “Time passes too slowly.”
> 
> My grin felt completely debauched.  From the hitch in his breathing, Agron must have reached the same conclusion: “We must be quick then.”
> 
> I tugged and he lurched, turning his back toward the grate and shielding me from view of passersby.  He folded one leg beneath him, the other foot braced upon dirt floor and I rose onto my knees.  The sounds of distant laughter and drunken singing dimmed beyond the rush of blood and waves of desire.  Desire such as I had never felt before.  My breath shook but my hands remained steady and fingers deft as I loosened his subligaria.
> 
> Fingertips trailed over my chest, arms, back as I fought for breath.  His torso was heaving with every desperate lungful.  His lips sealed over my neck -- a sucking kiss.  His teeth nibbled my jaw -- quick bites.  And suddenly his tongue was painting swaths of fire inside my mouth, pushing the lingering tang of wine away and replacing it with him, his taste.  He was luscious.  He was beautiful in my hands.  Strong and trembling and unleashed.
> 
> “Agron,” I quietly praised him, a private sound for his ears alone.
> 
> His kisses and sweeping touches -- unending as he rolled his hips into my grasp and I stroked and cradled, massaged and brushed.  He licked lustily, sucked and nipped my lips.  Curled his body closer, braced a hand upon the wall, feasted upon my skin as I leaned my cheek into his palm.  Flexing his spine and rolling powerful hips, he gave himself, placed himself in the care of my hands.
> 
> In silence, eyes half-closed and lips parted, panting breaths into my seeking mouth, he succumbed to my touch: my spit-dampened fingertips rubbing his entrance, the heel of my hand pressed behind his taut balls, my fist matching his thrusts.  He spilled over the brand upon my arm.
> 
> I smiled wide, leaned my forehead against his, and waited for his eyes to focus before I lifted my arm to my lips and began cleansing my skin with tongue.  A gasp shivered past his lips.  Shaking hands pulled me closer, cradled my elbow as he bent his head to sip away the traces that clung to the crook of arm that I could not easily reach.
> 
> “I would have you -- your taste on my tongue,” he pressed, crouching froward yet pausing for my reply.  “If you are agreeable.”
> 
> I hastily knotted his subligaria, nodded, and reclined beneath the overwhelming heat of his mouth.  My grip upon his arms was tight -- too tight, perhaps -- but he spoke no complaint.  He kissed me and I clung to him, to the slide of his tongue upon mine, to the flavor of his seed shared between our mouths.
> 
> I’d never had a lover, never had a man or woman worship me, never imagined I would be deserving of gentle attentions, and fear choked me more than once, yet every moment of doubt was eased away with the sound his voice -- “Nasir…” -- and the brush of his lips, the glide of his hands.
> 
> “I desire this,” Agron nipped into my bare neck, tongued over my collarbone, and kissed down my chest.  “I desire you this way.”
> 
> My subligaria loosened against his fingers and his bath oil-soothed palms brushed my thighs.  “I halt at your command, but know I desire all of this.”
> 
> All of this.  His meaning became clear in the next moment as wet heat enveloped me--my entire being focused upon the flesh suspended-cradled-laved in his mouth--all of this-- _ ** **everything.****_   The shock of it turned to blank-minded confusion and then spiraled into burning pleasure faster than I could catch my breath.
> 
> I grabbed for him, frantic: tangled locks of hair chafing between my fingers, my spine arched.  Hands beneath slouching material guiding me closer, deeper, gods save me.  I could only fall, fly, form his name as thunder and wildfire thrashed through me.
> 
> I knew nothing of my own actions; the world funneled down until the rush of blood and rapture of his touch stood its sum total.  I was swept up in hot desire, his hands the only reason I dared allow myself to become lost.  The storm built, charging quickly toward a lightning strike of incalculable power.  I clawed toward awareness, racing against oncoming release--
> 
> “H-h-halt,” I stuttered, desperate to spare him the indignity of--
> 
> But it was too late.  Jupiter himself struck me and I trembled-gasped-wept beneath the onslaught of pulsing light and darkness, senses scattering to the four directions.
> 
> My eyes and ears opened just as Agron gently sucked a retreat, licking my spent flesh with reverence and then his own lips in sated hunger.  The sight of his throat working, swallowing--fuck the gods.  I reached for him again, hauled him over me with greedy hands, and licked at the slick dribble that had escaped the corner of his mouth, moistening my tongue.
> 
> He tipped his lips toward mine, a patient invitation that I readily accepted.  Again and again and again.
> 
> We dreamed through lazy, breathless kisses until the sounds of unsteady, approaching footsteps prompted his hands to reassemble my wrap.  “Would you sit with me or recline?”
> 
> “Sit,” I croaked, hoping the posture would aid in calming my straining heart and feed my still-starving lungs.  The footsteps turned down another corridor, but I did not shift position; pressing against Agron’s side, I was presented opportunity for additional idle venturing that I made no effort to resist.
> 
> Agron’s fingers were kneading into my hair and lazily tracing the veins of my hands when Duro at last stumbled into view.  I turned away from nuzzling Agron’s throat and worriedly studied Duro for signs of dangerous overindulgence yet made no move to shift from beneath the warmth of my lover’s arm.
> 
> My lover.  The thought sparked explosions of heat under my skin.
> 
> Duro dived for his bench and flopped over.  Unfocused gaze drifted between us, noting our intimate posture -- my hand lay incriminatingly upon Agron’s thigh -- and he laughed.  “Fuck the gods!  I would have won the wager!”
> 
> I snorted.  Agron’s head tilted back against the wall with a soft _****thump!****_   We both blushed.
> 
> “See yourself to fucking slumber,” Agron grinned, wry and resigned.  Moments later, Duro gifted us with a snore made loud and obnoxious with drink.  I nudged Agron to recline and settled my heavy limbs upon and between his.
> 
> The night waxed and waned, short hours of rest interspersed with caresses, kisses, and rocking hips.  Slow, greedy, and tender in turns.  Neither of us reached completion again.  To do so would send us both into deep, exhausted slumber.  I could not bear to squander precious time with my lover, a man of hot passions and delicate touch.
> 
> For so many nights I had denied us intimacy of touch and blissful release.  My excuses had been numerous: fear of attachment, fear of unleashing events beyond control, fear of emptiness in the wake of fucking.
> 
> My fears -- each and every one of them -- had been decimated: forced from Agron’s side for but a single day, the world had lost color and light; whenever sensation overwhelmed, a mere touch of my hand stayed his advances and he offered comfort; giving him pleasure and accepting it in turn had not left me cold and hollow but burning brighter and hotter than I ever had before.
> 
> We were lovers.  Lovers.  I finally understood the freedom and power of the word.  As well as the terrible price we would pay when parted.  I clutched at his shoulders in the dark.  He brushed fingertips through my hair, kissed my brow.
> 
> I did not ask him to cease his attentions and take rest.  He did not rouse me when I succumbed at last to slumber.
> 
> And then came dawn.
> 
> All trace of Agron’s gentleness disappeared when we emerged from the shadows of the ludus and the unforgiving light of the morning sun unveiled the marks upon my throat.  Agron’s eyes blazed, his hands fisted, his nostrils flared with pure rage.  Duro responded no better.  Both of them glared at Crixus throughout morning meal and drills.
> 
> We were set to spar.  Agron and Duro exchanged a look and a nod.  An inexplicable foreboding thrummed in my belly…

And now I was witnessing its fruition.  Duro, the fucking fool, had just challenged Crixus.  All because of a couple of harmless bruises!

I lunged, my teeth bared and eyes blazing, but Agron’s arm caught me.  His eyes were hard, piercing my frustration, and he shook his head.  I did not fucking understand.

Doctore seemed to.  His dark eyes dropped to the marks on my neck, skipped over Agron’s enraged posture, and settled on Duro’s stubbornly tilted chin.

He then spoke one word: “Begin.”

Duro attacked first in a flurry of blows that belied his easygoing nature.  Blade against shield.  Blade-upon-blade.  Crixus retreated, waited, and then an opening: the Gaul slammed the edge of his shield into Duro’s belly like a blow from ax blade.  I jerked against Agron’s arm, enraged almost beyond the point of hearing Agron’s aggravated sigh.  Almost.

Splayed upon the ground, Duro’s entire body shook and trembled.  My stomach heaved in sympathy and, had not an hour passed since we’d broken our fast, I might have vomited.

“Anyone else dare challenge?” the Gaul growled, his gaze dismissing me and Agron alike and I was suddenly furious enough to--

“Our fight is not yet finished,” Duro brashly announced, standing proud.  No hint of pain in his countenance.

“Stand down, pup,” Crixus warned, turning round.  “Before your shriveling cock wets the sand.”

As if inspired by the Gaul’s challenge, Duro scooped sand with shield’s edge and tossed it toward the his opponent’s face aided by favorable wind.  Agron jerked with subtle approval.  I glimpsed his nod and then Duro was pressing advantage, driving Crixus back.  But when the Gaul stood his ground, Duro stepped too close, shields caught, trapped, and Crixus struck him across the face with fist and pommel.

Duro slammed into the sand, back striking hard and flat.

_****Gain feet!****    ** **Roll to your fucking feet, brother!****_

He did not.  His limbs twitched weakly and I pushed at the arm Agron kept stretched across my middle, barring me from interfering.  Not that I would have dared to get between them, but I would gladly trade blows with Crixus while Duro gathered scattered fucking senses!

But then Duro curled onto his side, spat blood upon the sand, shook his head, and climbed to his feet.  Unsteady and trembling.  Crixus paused in his exit.  Turned.

Despite sword absent from grasp, Duro challenged the Gaul a third time.  I did not want to watch for Duro held no advantage in his screaming war cry and mad assault of brute force, but I could not turn away.  If I could not stand with him, I would stand witness.

They butted shields, but Crixus was unshaken from his stance.

Duro’s guard dropped and--

Pommel to face--

Pommel to neck--

Knee to diaphragm--

Blow upon blow and then--

With fist to chin -- uppercut! -- Duro’s head snapped back and he fell.  The Gaul stood over him, assessed him as beaten, and turned away.

Duro pulled himself up with the aid of shield’s edge.

Agron’s arm tensed, hand fisting.  “That’s enough.  Stay down, you ignorant shit!” he gritted out through bared teeth.

It was doubtful that Duro could hear the instruction.  He would have seen it in Agron’s livid expression, but he did not cast his gaze our way.  No, he regained feet, wobbled, and glared blearily as Crixus stormed in, grabbed shield from Duro’s limp arm, and smashed the flat of it across his face.

Duro flopped to the sand with a lifeless _****thud!****_   Senses dashed and eyes rolling.  The left side of his face bloodied and already swelling with welts.

The crack of the whip and Doctore’s shout -- “Enough!” -- stayed the Gaul’s imminent pounce.  My gaze skimmed Crixus’ posture; he had taken offense at Duro’s temerity.  He also favored his side as he left the sands, panting heavily.

By the gods.  Even if Duro had not presented challenge in level of skill, his dogged persistence had nonetheless gotten under the man’s skin.

I dismissed Crixus and glanced toward Agron.  Though his chin was tucked low and jaw clenched, the expression on his face was not solely made from fury.  Yes, he was angry, but from the way his mouth tightened and eyes shone, he was equally proud.

As Duro made motion to pull himself to his feet absent aid, one man began to clap.  Slow and firm.  Another joined in.  Then another.  And another.

When Varro gave applause and I saw Spartacus’ smile, I understood this was a sign of respect.

“See him to Medicus,” Doctore ordered.

Agron’s arm finally lowered and I raced to Duro’s side.  Thankfully, another of his usual sparring partners lent aid and we pulled him upright.

Agron reached for his brother’s neck, pressed their foreheads together and gave Duro a beaming smile, sharing the full measure of his pride in silence.

Duro’s arms flexed, trapping me between them and bumping my forehead against their unshaven jaws as he clutched Agron’s arms.  Sobbed with happiness.

I too was proud of him.  In spite of all else.

I rubbed Duro’s back, slapped his shoulder fondly, and angled him toward the ludus infirmary.  Agron slid beneath his bother’s other arm and, together, we shouldered his weight.

I forcibly turned my thoughts away from Duro’s aim in challenging the Gaul, waiting until evening meal to ask, “What grievance do you have with Crixus?”

Duro rolled his eyes.  The left half of his face was a colored mash of tender flesh, scrapes, bruises, stitches, and swollen lumps.  “He’s a fucking Gaul.  Is that not enough?”

Agron chuckled, reaching over to jostle his brother’s shoulder in agreement.

“Then why not challenge Rhaskos?  Or Liscus?” I pressed quietly.  Mannus and Acer were also Gauls, unless I was mistaken.  Fortis, Plenus, and many others who hailed from separate lands counted themselves among their number.

“I would test the champion of cock-and-balls himself,” Duro replied with a shrug and a giggle that, unbelievably, Agron shared.

I just…

How was this amusing?

This fucking pointless pain and stupidity!  And for what?  For _****what!?****_

For fucking damage done to something that the Gaul had not been given leave to touch?  Something that did not belong to him?  Something these two German shits believed they possessed and stood as master over?

I slammed my fist down upon the table, rattling our bowls and drawing looks of surprise.  I was but a breath away from telling them to fuck themselves.  I opted to take my leave before I did.

Evading Agron’s placating hand, I leaped over the bench.  My meal was only half finished but I could not stomach it, not alongside the thoughts that churned my guts with absolute, livid fury.  I might not stand as a gladiator but I was not fucking helpless!

The ludus slaves had already stowed all weapons.  The gathering clouds overhead brought the scent of rain.  I turned the corner, blocking the hall from sight, and faced the ledge.  Hands fisted, I drew a deep breath.  Released it.  Drew another.

I struggled for calm, yet I did not truly desire it.  I desired an opponent.  Anyone would do.

Footsteps approached me from back.  By the gods, yes!

I pivoted on a snarl.

Duro held up both hands.

Fuck.  I would fight anyone but him.  No matter my suspicions, I could not strike out at this man’s boyish smile.  And the pup fucking knew it.

Despite admirable effort at restraint, my welcome was apparently lacking; he frowned.  “No words of gratitude, brother?”

The urge to slap him rumbled through my entire body.  Perhaps I ought to cede to the urge and knock the ignorance from him.  But.  Perhaps it was I who did not understand.  Perhaps.  Before I accused Duro and Agron of claiming the same rights as a dominus, I would exhaust other worthy causes for ire.  There were numerous to choose from.

I crossed my arms.  “Gratitude?” I hissed.  “For meaningless fight and injury?”

He reared back.  “Meaningless?  You have balls, do you not?”

“And enough sense not to present them as dangling target!”

Shock pushed aside resentment.  Expression reforming with humor, Duro mused, “I easily forget you were not raised by warriors.”  He huffed at my arched brow.  “I would explain.”

“I extend fucking invitation.”

He chuckled.  And then he sighed.  He sat down on the sand.  After a moment, he glanced up and then nodded for me to join him.  I released and drew another breath before I trusted myself not to kick him in the ribs.  I sat.

“You know of politics,” Duro not-quite asked.

“By some measure, yes.  My previous dominus was occasionally consulted by senators.”  Which had been the reason Legatus Glaber’s wife Ilithyia, on Batiatus’ behalf, had encouraged Marius to attend Numerius’ toga virilis.  Marius had also intended to do business in Capua while visiting the city, therefore, I had accompanied him.  And, since I held detailed knowledge of the man’s business ventures and wealth, I had not been left to my own devices.  Every Roman of status had enemies.  Letting me out of his sight would have made me a tempting target for those who would see him surrender standing.

He likely thought me long dead by now.  Or at least hoped I was.  The things I knew I would keep to myself barring a matter of life and death.  The realm of politics was as deadly as any arena.

Duro nodded.  “There are politics in a ludus as well, though I’m sure they differ in practice.”

Disappointingly, he was only confirming my earlier suspicions: “You would not have challenged Crixus today had you not seen the damage to my neck.”

“You speak truth.”

I choked out: “I handled it.  The matter was resolved!”

“Yes, you handled him.  From what I overheard last night, you talked circles around the fuck.”

My lips twitched in a helpless smirk.

Duro bumped my shoulder.  “But I am your brother.  And Agron is… that and more.  In laying hand upon you, Crixus issued challenge to _****us.”****_

I was forced to admit that I could not argue that.  The Gaul’s first words had been insults directed toward Agron and Duro.  Still, I wished to know: “For what purpose?”

With a shrug, Duro speculated, “Because our people have stood as enemies for generations.  Because Agron and I stand with Spartacus.  Because Crixus is a shit-eating cunt.  It matters not.  He pressed advantage when you were _****absent allies****_  and your allies must answer.”

A hand on my shoulder drew my gaze to his.

“Nasir.  You stood on your own against him.  We do not seek to take that from you, but if Agron and I do nothing, we stand as nothing.  As less than men.”

“You speak of pride.”

“No.  Well… a little.  In this place, pride and allies and status -- these are fucking needful.”

I was well aware.  I was also beginning to understand Duro’s meaning: in claiming me as their brother, neither Agron nor Duro could turn a blind eye to any assault against me.  To do so would be the worst negligence.  If they had ignored Crixus’ unwelcome attentions, Agron and Duro would be branded with dishonor.  Trusted by no man among the Brotherhood.

“Yet you did not issue challenge last night?”

Duro sighed.  “We fucking would have, but you bade us not to anger Doctore and risk being sent to the mines.  Agron and I did respect your request.”

They had.  They truly had.  Only, I had not realized we had slipped into negotiations for retribution.  I would know better next time.  Yet there was one puzzle I could not solve: “I still… why did you step forward?”

“Well, Spartacus might have.  If not him then Varro, of a certainty.”  Duro drew in a deep breath.  “But it falls to those who are closest to you.  If neither Agron nor I felt we could make reply, then we would have sought aid from them.”

“But… why would _****you****_  take on Crixus?”

His cocky grin was lopsided, favoring the left side of face and revealing a brief flash of strong teeth.  “I wished for it.”

Befuddled, I could only shake my head at him, hands flopping uselessly upon my knees.  “You seized opportunity to be bashed upon face with your own shield?”

He bowed his head.  Sighed.  “I nearly died in the arena.  I would have died, but Agron saved me.  As he has always saved me.  Because he’s always been the better brother.”

“Duro, no, you--”

“I must not allow him to shoulder my weight.”  He offered me a smile that was almost shy.  “You--since you arrived--fuck.  Agron is an older brother.  He will always be an older brother.  Fuck, he’s probably fidgeting splinters into his ass waiting for me to finish breaking words with you.  But I ordered that he wait, and he fucking did it and--by the gods, Nasir--this is a first for both of us!”

“He wants you to be strong,” I agreed.

“No, he _****needs****_  me to be strong,” Duro corrected, and then shook his head ruefully, lips pressing and twisting.  He glared out at the darkness, jaw clenched and fingers curling into the sand like claws.  “My brother considers you his equal.  Because your strength of will rivals his.  He respects you.  I now understand what I must do to gain the same.”

I reached for Duro’s shoulder.  “You speak intent to turn from him?  That is not--”

“He would kill me himself if I dared such a thing.”  Duro’s grin -- wide and unfettered -- tugged at his battered flesh.  “There is no cause for concern; when I am in need of aid, I will ask.”

“Good.  But you have not answered my question.”

Duro quirked his brows.

“Why did Agron not attempt to claim right of reprisal?”  I gestured to my throat.  “If that duty falls to the one closest…?”

“Eh, that’s simple strategy.  If Agron fights Crixus and -- gods forbid -- loses, we three would appear weakened.  Agron is the strongest and best warrior among us and he is undefeated against that fucking Gaul.  You saw their fight?”

“Yes.”  I remembered.

Duro nodded.  “So I fought him.”

“Knowing he would defeat you.”

“I made him earn it, did I not?”

“You did.”  I tightened my grip upon his shoulder.  “You regained feet and purpose.  If it pleases you to know this: I was proud of you.”

Regardless of aching muscles, scraped skin, welts, and stitches, Duro _****beamed****_  with joy.

“But,” I continued, “now that I understand why you issued challenge, I stand even more so.”

How could I not be?  This man had fought a losing battle not to exact payment for a damaged possession, but **_**f** **or the sake of his brothers.**_**   He had been overpowered and outmatched, but he had not stayed down.  Neither had he accepted defeat nor asked for mercy.  This man had willfully undertaken the pursuit of pain to ensure that our alliance remained strong and formidable, to show that we could and would stand together against any threat even absent the aid of Spartacus and Varro.  In summary, Duro had fought Crixus to protect all three of us.

“You stand as our champion.”

Duro gawped, gaped, and blinked misty eyes at me.  “Fuck.  Nasir, that’s…”

“That is the measure of your courage, brother.  That is why Agron heeded your words.”

I gave him a sincere smile and then offered him a measure of privacy as I looked out at the horizon.  The smell of rain was stronger now and a deluge would soon be upon us.  I remained where I sat, an arm against Duro’s back with hand curled upon his shoulder, and pretended I did not see his tears.  When the first drops fell, I turned my face up toward the sky.  The heavens opened.

Agron came to fetch us.  “Meal has gone cold.”

It was of no matter.  The tears had been washed from Duro’s cheeks, though his eyes were reddened.  As his brother, Agron would easily notice, but he said nothing.  He threw an arm around each of us and steered us out of the storm.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the TV show, the fight between Duro and Crixus takes place in Blood and Sand, Episode 10 (before Numerius’ party) but I’ve moved it to AFTER the party, extending Crixus’ recuperation. I wanted Nasir’s arrival at the ludus to play a role in that altercation.
> 
> Gaygreekgladiator’s “Anyone Who Isn’t Us” planted the seed of an idea in my head: the concept that Duro (and Agron) believe that Agron is (and ought to be?) the “better” brother. A misconception that I couldn’t NOT explore and pick apart. I imagine that, for years, Duro has alternated between (a) letting Agron protect him and (b) railing uselessly against Agron’s overbearing, older-brother tendencies, but now they’re both seeing a bigger picture: it’s about protecting their whole family. Just as Duro has to learn to stand up for himself, Agron has to learn to let him.
> 
> I sure hope you Duro fans out there liked this chapter! (^_^)
> 
> EDIT: There’s one more reason why Duro (and not Agron) challenged Crixus. Duro hints at it but doesn’t come right out and say it because he thinks it’s obvious -- Duro kind of effed up in the arena and Agron had to save him, yeah? Well, Agron has proven his worth as a gladiator. Duro, on the other hand, hasn’t. Challenging Crixus is a kind of “damage control” so that Batiatus doesn’t completely write him off and send him to the mines (or sell him to another lanista). (FYI, I may end up deleting this note if this topic comes up later in APMF. IF.)


	5. Coin and Whores

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: sexytimes (Agron/Nasir) and reference to other sexual activities (I mean, like, the chapter title... enough said) ALSO VAGUE REFERENCE TO PAST NCS (canon-compliant because, y'know, Tiberius was a slave, after all)
> 
> Music I wrote to: “A Thousand Years” cover by Boyce Avenue

 

Isolation.

I woke to the slightest sounds.  Tonight, it was the distant cough of a guard at corridor’s end, stationed at the ludus gate.  I had no way of knowing how far off dawn remained.  There were no snuffling snores to count.  There was no heartbeat beneath my ear to match breath to.

I was alone in the cage.

As promised, Agron and Duro had each received private cells.  A sign of status.  I was pleased for them.  Anything which furthered their comfort and position would aid them in survival.

I had put from mind Agron’s vow to see to my accommodation… until I’d witnessed both he and Duro breaking words with Doctore.  I’d hoped my suspicions were groundless, but Duro’s deflated posture and Agron’s stiff shoulders told another tale.  At evening meal, they’d revealed the content of their negotiations: each brother had proposed sharing their one-man cells with me.  When that had failed, Agron had asked to move his pallet into the cage for me to take rest on and Duro had reluctantly confessed that his brother had readily offered coin from their winnings to pay for my unearned cell.

That was when I’d forbidden them both from bringing the matter forth for discussion again.  With anyone.

“Strike worry from mind!” I’d ordered firmly.  “I am in no peril and further attempts at interference on my behalf will be ill received.  Well-meaning though your intentions are.”

Six nights.  Six vulnerable, sleep-deprived nights.

I did not ask myself how I’d once managed to find rest upon stone and dirt.  Ignorance, it is said, is bliss.

Fuck.  I never should have goaded Agron into opening his arms to me.  He had ruined me.  In more ways than one.

It was getting harder and harder to keep up the pace of my training.  I counted thirteen days until I would set foot in the arena, but time seemed abstract.  The threat distant.  I was numb to it.

I did not ask Agron how he slept.

Though he broke no words on it, there was nothing I could conceal from his gaze.  The shadows beneath my eyes and my tired smile had no place to hide.  Every morning, he would wait for me at the juncture of the corridor and press a kiss to my forehead.  I’d tug him close with arms around his waist, eyes closed as heart awakened.  Then we would join Duro in the hall and a jest or cheeky grin would animate a spark of fire within me.  A spark into which their welcome banter would breathe life.

The flames would see me through training, through laughter and jokes and new bruises layered upon old.  I would smile through sand-caked teeth and stinging eyes.  I would snarl and hiss and gain feet yet again to unravel my opponent.

I won less than half of my matches.  Even fewer recently as I settled into a style that was as predictable as some of theirs had initially been to me.  Turnabout.  But the loses did not dampen spirits.

No, it was the long, silent, solitary night that left me weary and rubbed my soul threadbare.

Hence my preference for lingering in the hall at evening meal, brawling in the yard despite screaming aches and pains, dallying in the baths, slouching in the corridors with Duro and Agron.  I could not bring myself to enter their cells.  It would be all too easy to dream myself upon Agron’s pallet and into his arms.  Waking absent his warmth would tear me down.

I was _****ruined.****_

Donar noticed.  Of all people.

“You three are the saddest fucks this shithole has ever seen.”

Agron glared at him over his portion of morning gruel.

I clenched my teeth in silent snarl.

Duro snorted irreverently.  “And your meaning would be…?”

“Find something to fucking fight for before you all fucking fall.”

With that, he collected his bowl and spoon, rising to seek sunnier company.

“Donar speaks truth.  We are worthy of ridicule,” I muttered.

“What we deem of fucking importance is not to be belittled,” Agron argued tersely.

Duro brazenly pointed out, “Well, we can piss about it ‘til our cocks fall off but it’ll make no difference.”

I looked up from scraping my empty bowl.  “As we cannot change the circumstances, it is ourselves who must change.”  This was the most basic tenet of survival as a house slave.  I was disappointed in myself for not considering it sooner.

“What is your meaning?” Agron asked, blinking in confusion.  Duro was equally blank-faced.

Of course they would have no notion of what I spoke.  They were both young, strong men who had lived free lives until recent capture.  Amazingly, they were both still free men at heart.  Such beautiful rebellion.  I should not nurture it.  Rome would crush the fire from them eventually; I would merely delay the inevitable… and the agony would be twice as shattering for it.

And yet.

And yet, was a life of fear and submission of any quality worth enduring?  I had once endured thus and I would rather perish than return to it.  Agron and Duro would no sooner choose to survive at the expense of broken heart and spirit than I would.

So decided, I leaned over and did something I had not permitted since Agron and Duro’s return from the arena: in full view of all, I grabbed my lover’s stubbled cheeks and kissed him.

After attending many Roman celebrations -- some hosted by Marius and some hosted by those who sought his favor -- and standing witness to numerous “sensual displays,” I had been adamant in concealing our intimate encounters.  But as Agron and I were guaranteed neither private time nor secret place with each other, opportunities were more than simply limited: they had been fucking absent for the past six days.

Well.  No longer.  I had fought -- I had faced the test of the Brotherhood three fucking times -- for the chance to return to his arms.  And Agron had emerged from the arena holding to the same aim.  I would have him.  I would simply have to learn to ignore the fact that everyone else would know of it.

My hands slid down to shelter our lips as I devoured him, rolling his tongue against mine with enough enthusiasm to startle him out of his lock-limbed shock.

Agron’s hands cupped my face, his fingers tracing into my bound hair.  Neither of us pulled back; rather, the kiss receded like the tide, leaving us breathless on the shore.

“Nasir?” he checked quietly, a breeze against my crashing waves.

“Fuck them,” I replied.

Two words and he understood: both of us had struggled too hard to not claim our prize.

He grinned.  Giggled.  Kissed me softly.  This time, it was his hands that shaded our mouths from view.  A consideration that Duro seemed to appreciate.

“At least you made it ‘til month’s end,” Duro mused dryly.

I clung to Agron’s lips a moment longer before commanding myself to retreat.  “Month’s end?”

“Fuck,” Agron sighed, rolling his eyes with disgust.  In response to my confusion, he explained, “Ashur brings coin and whores today after midday meal.”

My stomach churned, sharing the sentiment that tightened Agron’s lips into a sour frown.  Of all days for me to publicly declare my desire!

“What goatfuckery is this?” Duro demanded aghast, looking from his brother to me and back again.  “If you two don’t fuck each other senseless today, you’re both fucking idiots.”

Agron pointed a warning finger at Duro.

I hissed, “I would spend the afternoon in the company of both my brothers!”

Duro huffed a laugh.  “Though you present kind offer, even I will not ask Agron to share your attentions.”

“You know my meaning,” I sniped.

“My brother is not enough man for you?”

“By the gods, you press fortune,” I coughed, clutching Agron’s arm to keep him from swooping across the table.

Duro shrugged, eyes twinkling.  “I have a talent.  Now--”  His stare was surprisingly stern.  “--I have no desire to see either of you between midday and evening meals.  I will break words, or perhaps cross swords, with Spartacus.  Or Varro, if he declines cunt.”

With that -- and a cheeky wink -- Duro shifted to stand.

I seized opportunity, leaned across the table, and punched Duro lightly upon shoulder.  “I would fight you this morning, brother.”

Duro stood and saluted with his empty bowl.  “Let us see it done!”

He stomped off, meandering past allies -- Hamilcar, Donar, Spartacus, Varro, and a few others -- breaking words and sharing jests.  Agron shifted beside me and I turned to find him glaring at his brother’s retreating back.  “Cocky little fuck.”

“He plans to save coin,” I pointed out, reminding both of us that Duro needn’t decline comfort from a whore, yet that appeared to be his choice.

“Unfairness rankles,” Agron reluctantly muttered.

I agreed.  It was unfair that Agron and I could see desires satisfied with each other, however…  “He does not envy us.  A whore in exchange for coin is a lesser risk than a lover who may fall on the sands.”

“You dare speak such a thing,” Agron scolded, his tone one that no sane man would cross.

His hand lifted from my hip, slid over bare back, and then spanned shoulders.  Rather than pull me against his side, he hitched himself closer.  His lips pressed against my cheek and I leaned into him, rubbing his back with palm.

“Thirteen days,” I said softly.

Agron scowled at me, uncertain of my meaning.

I could not bring myself to clarify.  Doctore had confided my arena date to me in secret.  That I trusted Agron not to share the information thoughtlessly stood the only reason I spoke it now.

Meeting his eyes -- pale green in morning sunlight -- I repeated solemnly, “Thirteen days.”

“Since you gained the mark,” he queried uncertainly.

My jaw clenched.  “An accurate estimate to both questions.”

“Both--”  His eyes widened.  His throat tensed.  His lower lip rolled inward to meet the rough edge of teeth.  Yes, he knew my meaning.

“Do not speak it to another.”

He nodded readily, perhaps happy to pretend the words had never passed my lips.  Yet he curved his larger frame even tighter around mine, becoming as a shell, offering safe retreat and protective barrier.  I could afford neither, but I did not push him away.  Agron required this illusion.  I would provide it.

The Veteran led us through morning drills.  There were no sparring assignments and the men merely went through the motions of battle, conserving their strength for afternoon pursuits.  Duro and I were exceptions.  We made genuine effort: my spear to his sword-and-shield; then my sword-and-shield to his ax-and-shield; thereafter, my sword-and-shield to his sword-and-shield.  I faced him with everything I had in me, besting him two out of five matches.  Our sixth -- spear-to-spear -- was interrupted by the call to midday meal.

The atmosphere was far more boisterous than that of game assignments.

I touched Agron’s arm and asked, “Baths?”  It would allow us to avoid some of the commotion.

He relaxed, smiled softly, nodded.

However, we could not avoid the parade of whores and ensuing encounter with Ashur.  As Duro and Agron’s cells were the furthest from ludus entrance, we attempted distraction from the growing chorus of excited grunts and slaps of sweaty flesh.  I spoke of Capua, describing the city in detail: its shops and customs and citizens.  Duro happily pointed out Roman foolishness and offered criticism of useless luxuries found in the marketplace.

At last coming to a stop in front of Duro’s cell where we three passed the time, Ashur gifted us with a smug smile.  The brace had been removed from his leg, but he moved stiffly.

“You may choose coin or cunt,” he informed Duro, indicating two well-oiled, naked women trailing in his wake.  “Your earnings are not enough to allow for both.”  A slick look in Agron’s direction preceded a remark of, “A choice easily made in your case.  Unless you tire of the little man’s ass?”

Agron surged to his feet.  I toed the back of his knee.  Though I hadn’t used enough force to throw off his balance, he pulled up sharply.

Ashur smirked.  “Or perhaps it’s you who offers a hole for fucking.”

Duro stood.  “Give us our coin and seek someone else to fuck your rotten ass.”

As their earnings were very slowly counted out, the shit-eating fuck remarked to me, “You look hale, Nasir.  Training suits you.  Though I’m surprised you chose to seek protection from gladiators of lowest standing.”

“I would ask who you would choose,” I shot back, “but it is an idle query; none would have you.”

Ashur laughed.  “That tongue of yours!  It spears ass rather than licks it -- I doubt you’ll gain any skill in the latter from these two.”  He handed over the coins.  “It pains me to see a brother so ill-prepared for his fate.  I would offer instruction at--”  Here, he paused and assessed both Duro and Agron, clearly gauging the size of their cocks despite the draping offered by subligaria.  “--a more reasonable rate.”

I retorted cuttingly, “As quality of gains is more often than not matched by measure of _****cost,****_  I would decline.”

Ashur chuckled as if thrilled to be accused of possessing substandard cock.  “You would be wise to reconsider.”  Pulling out a small, wax-tablet ledger and stylus, Ashur tilted his chin, mocking me with a knowing glint in his eye.  “Take care, brother, lest you find yourself receiving more than bargained for.”

Finally, the fucking Syrian turned on his heel and returned to business.

“Treacherous fuck,” Duro observed.

Agron predicted, “We will see the shit’s head upon pike one day.”

“Apologies,” I said to both of them.  When the word merely drew their confused frowns, I was again reminded of the differences between us.  “I spoke out of turn.  You held right to answer insult.”

Duro patted my shoulder.  “Think no more on it, little brother!  My cock stands honored to be defended with equal passion as my brother’s!”

With a disgusted sound, Agron moved toward the open door.  “Fuck off, Duro.”

“Alas, you and Nasir will have to act in my stead.  I am for the sands.  Spartacus awaits.”

Duro shoved his brother out into the corridor and set foot for the yard.

Joining him, I admitted with utmost sobriety, “I’m of a mind to fuck on his pallet.”

Agron’s gaze jerked toward mine.  He stared.  And then we broke into helpless giggles.  Agron guided my face closer with fingertips as he crouched down to share a soft kiss.

We retreated to the baths.  It was one of the few places in the ludus where the guards rarely insisted on being present.  Given the activity in the cells, they were likely too busy contemplating the bare flesh and dutiful fucking to bother with us.  Agron and I were alone.

I’d had every intention of bathing.  Truly.  But this was an opportunity I would not allow a moment’s waste.

I hooked a finger into Agron’s subligaria and beckoned him toward a secluded corner.  I pushed him toward a bench and he sat, hands drifting over my thighs, welcoming me into his lap.  An odd arrangement, but his enchanted smile was enough of a reward to keep me there.

My fingers sifted through his stiff locks of hair, tilting his head at favored angle to receive my kiss.  He leaned forward, eager to meet me.  Lips, teeth, tongues -- our mouths came together hungrily until we were feasting on each other’s slick heat and humid breaths.  I rolled against him, spine undulating in a slow sampling of pleasures to come, and suddenly his hands were clutching at my hips.

Clutching hard.  Sparking memory.

_****Hands grasping-bruising-using--!** ** _

Palms fell to his chest.  Pushed.  My mouth freed, I gasped--“Halt!”

He froze.

He, Agron.  This was Agron and my heart had no cause to pound with fear.  I had not dreamed the last four weeks.  The flesh beneath my hands was real.  Agron was beautifully, blessedly real.

Drawing a calming breath, I reached for his hands and eased his grip.  “No,” I whispered and his expression twitched with understanding an instant before his jaw clenched with fury: his rage directed not toward me, but toward those other hands.

His anger reassured me, oddly enough, and I drew strength enough to send dark thoughts far from the moment.  I ducked beneath his chin and delivered kisses to flexed muscle beneath scruff and skin.

“Apologies,” he breathed, snuggling closer to my mouth.

“None required.”  I leaned back far enough to show him my smile.  “With you, I am free to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’  A gift greater than any pleasure.”

His hands skimmed over my hips and fingertips scaled my spine, sending shivers through me.  “Any pleasure?” he challenged.

Enjoying the gleam in his eye, I taunted, “Perhaps there is one you would share?”

“Many,” he growled, lowering his lips to my neck.  Nuzzling, nipping, sucking my skin against the edge of his teeth as his rough fingertips played along vertebrae, rocking and arching my torso against his chest.  Fuck.

Someone moaned.  Perhaps me.  Perhaps him.  Perhaps both of us in concert.

On a downstroke, his touch ventured beneath cloth, below my tailbone, and I gasped, clutching at his shoulders.  Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck.

“Agron,” I mouthed into his ear.

“This?” he asked, fingertip whispering against that secret, sensitive valley again.

I nodded, demanding his lips on mine as I danced mindlessly to the rhythm he stroked upon my skin.  By the gods, a simple touch should not feel this intensely hot and beautiful and unending.  I scrambled for his subligaria, pulling at the fabric even as I asked, “Agron, this…?”

“Yes, fuck the gods, yes.”

_****I would fuck you.** ** _

The thought shocked me with equal portions of need and fear.

I would fuck Agron or he would fuck me or both… but not this day.

The cloth fell open and I turned my gaze down to look upon him -- hard and sleek -- between my spread thighs.  I brushed knuckles against him and he strained, cursed, kissed my shoulders, his lips sloppy and aimless.

“Oil,” I breathed and he shuddered, nodded, panted as I slid out of his lap and fetched a pot that appeared recently filled.  Placing it beside him on the bench, I loosened my own wrap and tossed it upon a patch of dry stone.

Our bare bodies slid together, locking and levering.  He braced himself on one palm and urged me closer into loving movement with delicate passes of hand.  Our hips met -- perfection!  I drew my fingers through the oil and then reached between us -- divine!

Agron groaned, shifted, widened his thighs as I slicked his skin in my grasp.  His kisses grew even more desperate, but I offered no mercy.  I would feel this -- pleasure of command such as I had never been permitted -- I would have this for as long as possible.

Agron was not so patient.  “Fuck.  Nasir, set hands to task or witness mine attend to purpose.”

Smiling, I tightened my fingers around him and thrilled as breath exploded from lungs.  “This?”

He nodded, eyes unfocused and burning with need.

A second, slick hand ventured deeper between his thighs, finding his own hidden crevasse.  He shifted his hips forward, leaning back and opening to my touch.  “Yes,” he answered before I could ask.

I pressed his shoulders back against the wall, slid from his lap and hooked my arms beneath his knees, gasping as he opened to me with a needy roll of hips and spine.  Fuck the gods, how was this man mine?

I would show him my gratitude.

Kisses and kneading hands coaxed his trust forth and slick fingers discovered his preferrence, skimming over skin -- sharp tugs and careful twists -- until my fingertips were swirling over his entrance and I was remembering the way of it, anticipating how he would groan when I pushed in, how he would be robbed of breath when I pressed just so--

“Halt,” he gasped, fumbling for my wrist.

I blinked up at him, startled.  I was confident of my skills; I knew I had not caused him pain.  Did his body protest slumped position?  A muscle threatened to cramp?  I rushed to his aid: “What do you require?”

“Nasir,” he breathed against my lips.  “I would have you.”

“Am I not myself?”

He claimed my hands, threading our fingers.  “Practiced motions.  You told that a body slave did not tend to cock and ass.”

“For my first master, no, I did not.”

He inhaled sharply, teeth grinding.  “I require nothing of what was once demanded of you.”

Confusion made my voice sharp: “You have made no demands of me.  I offered freely.”

“Well received,” he nudged me up and into his lap again.

“Forgive me if I doubt your gratitude.”

“Ah, fuck.  Nasir.”  He lowered his mouth to my throat, brushed the tip of his nose between my collarbones, and pressed a gentle kiss to my chest.  In a matter of moments, I was arching back over his arms, perched upon his knees, toes brushing the stone floor.

“I am no Roman,” he burred into my skin, his scruff burning shivers over me.  “East of the Rhine, we fuck absent expectation of either strategy or perfection.”

“You… what?”  I had no notion of his meaning.

He looked up through his brows, smiling with sharp teeth, hungry.  “Would you have demonstration?”

I would.  I nodded.

Agron dragged his fingers through the oil and then, gaze locked upon me, his hand disappeared between us.  Grasped me.  Painted my skin with slow heat and luxurious pressure.

Ah, fuck!

But there was more: his hips hitched up into mine; his hand encircled both of us; fingertips at the base of my spine nudged and teased until my pelvis canted into him and the friction was--it was--

“Ah, fuck!” I praised-shuddered-surrendered and sought _****more.****_

He surrounded me, bringing our bodies flush, and I gasped, grasped onto his back-shoulders-arms as we pressed-slipped-slid, slick with oil.  He burned against me, his beard leaving flames over my skin like a fire spreading from one rooftop to another.  My skin was a sprawling city clamoring with activity.  His lips -- soft and soothing like misting rain.  His tongue -- hot and sure like lightning.  His breath -- wanton and challenging, pushing me beyond conscious thought.

I was peripherally aware of his hands tracing over my skin, tempting me away from his heat, the heaving motions of his chest, the hardness I centered upon and thrust against with my own.  His scent -- spice and musk and Agron -- I would taste him.  Deep breaths against the moist skin of his neck.  Tongue upon surging pulse.  Hands grasping myself closer-closer-closer, mindless and greedy for the feel of him.  The friction.  The heat and pleasure and more-more-more!

He groaned, leaned back.  Shoulders pressed to the wall and I climbed him, bracing my feet against his calves.  My fingers in his hair.  His mouth opening beneath mine.  Tongues fighting for deeper samplings before our tastes merged into one.  Yes.  Fuck the gods, yes.  I would take this from him.  I would take and take and take--

And the more I took, the higher-deeper-hotter his passion built.  Sensation and need and him and me.  All else fell away.

The rush of blood.  The building roar in the base of my spine.  Consciousness crashing down from skull to cock and I was erupting out of my skin for him--over him--upon him--fuck!  Ah, fuck fuck fuck!

Robbed of breath, I burst through the veil and pierced the mists surrounding Elysium.

Agron’s teeth pushed against my jaw in a gentle bite half-abandoned, moaning.  Against my belly, his release, pulsing.  Arms across my shoulders, banding me close, escape from his arms impossible.

Yes, by the gods.  Yes.

Panting, throat aching for water, lungs shrieking in silence -- I was made raw from within by mere air.  “That is the way of your people?” I wheezed.

He nodded, lowering his arms to resume caresses.  “Yours as well.”

“I am no German.”

He lifted his chin from the base of my neck and smiled with heat and joy.  He growled, “You are wild.”

I shivered, startled-unsettled-thrilled.

He shook his head in wonder as his gaze roved over my form followed by the delicate press of pursed lips.  “Only a fool would make attempt to leash your passion.”

I gasped, my hands clamping upon his cheeks.  I lifted his face, stared into his eyes and -- fuck the gods -- yes.  This man wanted me freed.  Fuck, I _****was****_  free with him.  At the insistent urging of his gentle touch, I reached for the freedom that had been taken from me before I could have even begun to understand what it meant.

“Dangerous,” I mouthed, both horrified and lusty for more.

He bared his teeth in agreement and anticipation.  “Yes, you fucking are.”

I clutched him close as he laid siege to my tenuous composure with needy mouth and whispering fingertips.  It seemed impossible, yet it stood true: this man treasured every rebellious aspect of me.  From my sharp tongue and quick wit to my dogged determination in training and my relentless resolve to stand firm to fucking purpose.  Everything that would have once seen me to the mines -- everything Rome would have beaten and snuffed out of my spirit -- drew Agron’s passion forth.

It was hard to imagine how much brighter we might burn should we become further entwined, but I would see it so.

Shoving at Agron’s shoulders -- my hand curled around his skull to prevent unkind injury -- I sent him bouncing against the wall.  Tilting my brow against his, I bared my teeth, scratched at his cheek, clawed his neck.  He trembled, desire renewing and rubbing between my thighs.

“I am ruined,” I accused, “for any purpose aside from battle and you.”

His fingers drifted into my hair even as he argued, “You are glorious.”

And with every kiss, with every press of our bodies and gasping release, I became so.  More and more and _****more.****_   Agron was peeling me, layer by layer, out of Rome’s false hold.  He was building me, breath by breath, into an inferno.  He was destroying me.  Remaking me.  Unfolding me.

At long last, I was beginning to understand what manner of man Nasir was.  He was a warrior.  He was marked for violent, bloody death.  He was doomed.

Survival was not enough for me.  Not anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not even gonna pretend I don’t love to HATE all over Ashur. In this chapter, he comes on to Nasir not out of genuine interest, but for the sake of stirring the pot to see what happens. Because that’s how he rolls. And for his efforts, he learns that Nasir is a feisty guy who defends his bros. A potentially useful tidbit of information.
> 
> A little clarification on the fucking that happens east of the Rhine: it’s not so much who does what to whom -- Agron’s not saying there’s no “insert tab A into slot B” (because there totally is). His point is that both parties are expected act on their own desires and see themselves satisfied rather than offering “service” to the other… which is what Nasir (as Tiberius) is familiar with (and what’s more, he’s confident in that situation) and he sort of starts to settle into that mindset in the bath before Agron asks him to stop. Since Nasir’s never had much opportunity to figure out what he likes, less sophisticated sexytimes are maybe a good starting point. (As Latin is Agron's second or third language, I imagine he sometimes has trouble expressing himself with regards to things that aren't battle-related or an insult.)
> 
> I have no plans to have Agron say definitively how experienced he is or isn't -- I have my own headcanon for this and I’m not going to shove it down your throat -- so I’ll leave the details on his sexual past up to you to decide. Nasir will make assumptions/guesses about this, but it’s entirely possible that he misunderstands or misinterprets things. That’s the beauty of first person point-of-view. (^_~)
> 
> Soooooooooooo...  
> How are you liking the story so far? Favorite moments? Favorite lines? Favorite characters? I would really love to hear from you. (It's cold here and my motivation is running on empty. A kind comment from you, my dear reader, will definitely bring faster updates, just so you know.)


	6. New Recruits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: sexytimes (Agron/Nasir)

 

Disdain.

The ludus throbbed with it.  I watched from yard’s edge, just beneath balcony’s overhang, as guards directed four men to present themselves upon the sand.  The newest recruits.  Men I would share the cage with.

My lip curled.

Agron’s hand settled on my back, out of sight from the newcomers.  I had never seen him look so hard and cold.  My shoulder brushed his chest.  Beside Agron, Duro shifted.  Chin jutting forward, he refrained from spitting insults and threats, but that made his glare no less formidable.  There was no sign of the pup now.

Was this the welcome I should have received as a recruit?

It was.

I no longer wondered at Donar’s complaints.  Spartacus and Varro had indeed handled me gently.  Agron and Duro had been uncommonly devoted.  At evening meal, I made inquiry: “Was your arrival here of a similar nature?”

Agron shrugged, glaring at the hopeful gladiators who ate in a huddled group, alternately ignored and harassed by those of the Brotherhood.  “Much the same.  Except this dumb fuck--”  He nodded toward Duro.  “--made attempt to answer Doctore.  ‘What is beneath your feet?’”

Duro smirked.  “Sand.”

I snorted.

“We arrived with four others,” Duro added.  “One fell during training.  Another made attempt on Spartacus’ life--”

“Stupid fucking Gaul.”

“And the other two?” I checked.

“They did not pass test.”

Agron’s palm rubbed a lazy circle over my thigh beneath the tabletop.  “You did.”

“I passed only because of much kindness and generosity of instruction.”

“And a little cleverness,” Duro teased.  Rhaskos had made no secret of how I’d bested him by anticipating his favored tactics.

“Advice set me to purpose,” I retorted and, with a grin, elaborated: “’Keep sense of surroundings.’”

Agron sucked in a breath.  That fierce frown of his returned.  Had he truly not known the power of those few words?

“There was one thing absent from today’s ceremony, was there not, brother?”

Duro’s boyish singsong drew a dark look from Agron.  “Fuck the gods.  Cast it far from memory.”

My lips formed the shape of query.

Duro laughed, blushing bright red.

I lifted palms, demanding explanation with jut of chin and raised brows.

“Express gratitude,” Duro said, “that all of the ludus -- and those on balcony -- did not seek to assess your cock upon introduction.”

“You--what--Batiatus wished to…?”

“Fucking Roman females,” Agron grumbled, enlightening me.

Duro carelessly remarked, “At least Batiatus’ wife only seeks company with Crixus and leaves the rest of us in peace.”

I froze.  It was not unheard of for gladiators, especially those who fought in the primus, to service admirers.  “Has Spartacus…?”

“Once that I heard of.”

I grimaced.

Duro shrugged.  “Cunt is cunt.”

“And if the interested party is male?”  The challenge wiped the careless grin from Duro’s face.  “Do not wish for Roman attention,” I advised, suddenly recalling Duro’s assumption that the gladiators in attendance at Numerius’ celebration had been lucky fucks.  Duro had no notion of what sort of activities were commonplace at extravagant Roman gatherings.

Agron’s lips pressed to my temple, a soothing gesture and welcome distraction from spiraling thoughts.

Duro turned gaze aside and abruptly frowned.  Agron and I looked as well: Liscus approached the recruits to snarl in the ear of one man, hissing threats, perhaps.

When all four men startled and glanced my way, I revised my estimation: Liscus had perhaps told they would share my cage, or perhaps he had confided that I -- a former house slave -- possessed skill in pleasing men.  It mattered not.  No truth he deigned to speak would be secret to anyone with eyes.  The recruits themselves were incidental; Liscus challenged _****me,****_  meeting my gaze with a bright, vicious smile.  I glared back, bared my teeth, and promised retaliation.  Tomorrow, upon the sands, I would fucking have it.

“Nasir.”

I looked up at Doctore’s approach.

“Follow.”

I shoved the last spoonful of stew into my mouth and Agron collected my bowl.  Our hands brushed.  Bracing a palm against his shoulder, I climbed from my seat.  Doctore led me into the ludus corridor, passing the now-empty cells and approaching the area where Agron and Duro took rest.

“You are scheduled to fight in nine days’ time,” Doctore reminded me.

“Yes, sir.”

“The magistrate’s son is eager to see you set to task in the arena.  Dominus would not have you injured or distracted beforehand.”

Ah.  He was aware of the issue of the moment.  I assured, “I will not permit the new recruits to inflict harm.”

Doctore glanced at me over his shoulder.  “Words I am glad to hear.”

“Yet an expectation you do not share,” I observed wryly.

“Four against one in a confined space.  You would eventually be overpowered.  A man must sleep sometime.”

I exhaled sharply, frustrated.  “A man may take rest if his enemy is guaranteed not to wake.”

Turning, Doctore shook his head.  “As you may have heard, the last group of recruits proved costly.  Too many lives lost for coin paid.  To avoid unpleasantness, you have been granted a cell of your own prior to appearance in the arena.”

I followed his gesture toward the open grate.  It was very kindly located following corridor’s bend.  I could see both Agron’s and Duro’s cell grates from mine.  “Gratitude, Doctore.  And my gratitude to Dominus.”

Doctore nodded.  “You will earn this privilege.”

“You have my full effort.”

He left me to examine the barren cell in the waning light of day.  Agron and Duro found me not long thereafter.  I grinned up at them from my worn -- but well received -- new bed.  Arms spread wide to receive their hesitant flickers of happiness, I called, “Do you welcome your new neighbor?”

They did.  Duro bounced onto my pallet -- all pup in the lanky form of man -- and Agron laughed against my forehead, massaging my neck.

I resumed the tale of Jason, concluding just before the guard appeared to shoo my brothers toward their own beds.  Agron’s fingers trailed over the bars of the grate, brushing against my knuckles with a smile of pure relief.

Remaining at the locked door, I leaned close to the iron, glimpsing Agron doing the same, our eyes able to just catch sight of one another despite the sharp angle.  I retired to my bed with something akin to hope keeping me warm.

A night spent upon a genuine mattress -- though thin and musty -- saw me rise a new man.  I attacked Agron’s beaming grin of good-morning with enough energy to inspire Duro to mock us with retching noises.  Neither Agron nor I cared.  Simply seeing Agron’s smile was reason enough to commit my full intent to training, but a night of uninterrupted and relatively comfortable rest certainly lent further strength to my conviction.

I required every bit of it.

“Nasir!  Take position with spear.”

I blinked in disbelief as Doctore faced me with twin swords.  The clanks, clatters, and grunts of sparring faded as pair by pair, the men took notice of our match.  Along the far wall, the scrape of wooden beams subsided.

Doctore did not reprimand them for their distraction, but he would reprimand me.  Of a certainty.

With every dram of determination I possessed, I sent myself to the arena: this tall Numidian stood my opponent and sole obstacle between myself and those I held to heart.  I would do whatever necessary to survive and return.

“Begin!”

I waited for his move, and when it came, I reacted absent thought.  Blocking one blow, I found myself at the mercy of a swift second.  I tumbled and rolled to my feet as if the blow had not been fatal -- but it would have been.  Fuck.

Facing Doctore, I readied myself for second attempt.

The same series of blows -- I saw them in the angle of Doctore’s shoulders.  I dodged into the attack, counter to intuition, knocking both blades aside and -- with swift twirl of spear -- struck a solid hit to back of knee.  By the time blunted tip was sweeping toward opponent’s chin, the blades were already anticipating the strike.

They clamped down upon spear’s shaft and, with a jerk of arms, I sensed intent to twist weapon from grasp.  I held tight, but did not resist the motion, spinning with the force of it--

A kick to the back of my knee--

Fuck again!  Doctore had warned me against presenting back.

\--yet I used gained momentum to yank spear from the pinch of blades’ edges.

Kneeling, crouching, facing Doctore once more and butt of spear to sand, I levered myself upright.  Directed oncoming blows to the side.  Sent blades downward.  Tip of spear sweeping up toward chin.  Doctore leaped back.

_****Press advantage!** ** _

Bracing spear in sand, I vaulted forward, striking out with both feet and landing blows upon retreating chest and arm.

Blade’s edge cut against my knee.

Fuck.  Another fatal blow.

Both feet to ground.

_****Duck!** ** _

_****Stab!** ** _

_****Roll and gain fucking feet!** ** _

The world narrowed to the clatter of weapons and the posture of opponent.

_****You react!  Halt!** ** _

I pulled back and spun aside rather than take the opening presented.

“Pause!” Doctore called.

I obeyed, guard yet raised.  Lips frozen in a silent snarl, jaw throbbing and teeth bared.

“You did not press advantage.”

“I did not trust it, Doctore.  I would make my own.”

He nodded.  “Then see it done.  Again!”

Again and again and again.  Doctore was tireless, delivering more fatal blows in this single lesson than I had received in all my matches over the past week.  I landed only a few minor hits, but I did not relent until he bid me stop.

I was wheezing.  My arms, shaking.  My legs, trembling.

“Beam,” Doctore ordered.  “Spar no more until afternoon.”

“Gratitude, Doctore.”

Turning toward the water barrel, I found myself stumbling through a gauntlet of smiles, shoulder-pats, and back-slaps.  Even Liscus looked impressed.  Agron beamed, holding out a full ladle and cupping my hands in both of his when I took it, concealing my helpless tremors.

“Glorious,” he murmured and I knew the thoughts behind his heated gaze.

I flushed.  “Gratitude.”

A footstep beside me and a punch to shoulder: Duro.  He elbowed Agron back to the yard with a happy challenge: “Let us see you last longer than Nasir, you slow shit.”

“Brother, you fucking jest,” Agron retorted.  Though what aspect of his brother’s meaning he objected to was unclear.

Sinking down onto the nearest bench, I took a few quick sips.

A shadow moved from the sunlit sand to intersect with mine: Rabanus.  “No one has ever stood so long against our Doctore on their first match,” my mentor volunteered quietly.

I shook my head, gulped the remaining water down, and rasped, “Because he permitted it.”

“Because you earned it.”

I blinked at him, startled.  A hesitant smile pushed at my weary face.

He nodded.  “See me after midday meal.  We will expand your skill in opening up an opponent’s guard and gutting him for the pleasure of the audience.”

“Well received.”

I allowed myself one more drink, a moment more of rest, then I replaced my spear and took up the beam and rope.  My hands still chafed, but my skin had indeed thickened since my days as a recruit.  I was moderately surprised to find myself out-pacing the newcomers who were all taller, broader, and seemingly gifted with more muscle than I was.  I could feel their exhausted, disbelieving stares as I passed them time and time again, but I watched the yard, as ever studying the strategies used, considering my own response with spear or sword.

The whip-crack for midday meal sped my feet and I deliberately made one additional pass, gaining on the recruits who shuffled toward the wall to replace their beams.  I hefted mine in place and was somewhat amused to find their stares skittering from my gaze.

I thought of Agron’s overtures during my first afternoon of training and grinned.

“Keep sense of surroundings,” I suddenly advised.

They startled at being directly addressed.  I looked from one to the other, wondering if these very different men spoke the common tongue.

I repeated, “While body is taken with task, eyes are free to observe.  Gain and keep sense of surroundings as you would gain and keep feet in battle.”

With that, I left them and joined Agron and Duro to receive my portion.

“You break words with the new men?” Duro asked, face scrunched in a blend of distaste and confusion.

“I merely pass on what benefited me.”

“Toward what end?”  Agron’s tone was not confrontational, merely curious.

It did, however, reveal to me my motivation.  One I was certain Agron would not like to know: should I fall in eight days, I would like to know I had left some humble legacy.  I would like to enable at least one other man to better face his fate.

“Toward what end did the two of you take to aiding me?”

Duro’s braying laugh befuddled me… until I spied Agron’s expression: he was thoroughly chastised.  A faint blush glowed upon his cheeks.

I coughed out a laugh.  “You fucking jest!”

Duro was still giggling uselessly, so I stared at Agron as he stirred his soup and scowled.  He finally grumbled, “You would find fault with attachment?”

“Only that it was undeserved.”

“False words!” Duro messily interjected, mouth now full.  He swallowed.  “You took cock in hand at fucking celebration.”

“A sight neither of you witnessed,” I protested and returned focus to Agron.  “What I wish to know cannot be so difficult to say.”

“It was jest of thorough cock-sucking,” Duro teased, waggling his brows.

Agron glared him into titillated silence.

I arched my brows in expectation.

“Ferocity,” Agron spoke, some measure of anger carrying the word past his lips.  “Your intent was made clear from the first -- you would stand and fight.”

This time, it was I who glowered at food in bowl.  “No.  I would make choice.  I would choose the reason for my death, the name I would be known by when I met my end, and the last sight before my eyes.”

Agron’s fingers brushed against my chin, curled, and nudged my gaze toward his.  “All one in the same.”

My lips twitched and curled.  “Although.  I would have wagered it was jest of thorough cock-sucking.”

Across the table, Duro choked-coughed-sputtered on an overflowing bite.  “Fuck!” he wheezed as Agron and I both laughed, leaned across the table, and pounded on his back.

The recruits were promised seven days to prepare themselves for their test.  I sparred with each of them daily, though I did not break words beyond necessity.  Most gladiators treated them as shit to be scraped off of shoe’s heel.  Agron would occasionally spare a word and Duro would use them to practice attack, but there was no kindness shown to them.  These men were beneath notice until they had proven themselves.

I had proven myself the night of celebration.

By the gods.  I had proven myself to Spartacus and Varro before setting foot in this ludus.  Perhaps my sharp words and quiet fury had proven me to Agron.  And Duro, though he held no reservation against protesting mightily, would never not follow his brother’s lead.

“Your smile shines,” Agron informed me, reaching up to pet my lips with his thumbs.  We had bid Duro good night and would make use of the brief time allotted before guards passed through to lock the cells.

“Too brightly?”  My concern of the utmost innocence.

His teeth flashed in the torch light.  “Too tempting.”

Our lips met.  My hands groped over his bath-flushed skin.  He held me close and--ah this was dangerous.  So dangerous to begin when we would soon have to part company.  But I had been starving for the feel of his powerful body in my arms for days.  I pushed the grate shut on Agron’s cell and tugged him toward mine, daring to close the door behind us.

“You make attempt to deceive the guard?” Agron inquired.

I shrugged.  “There is a small chance he will not expend close attention.”  Sure enough, when footsteps approached and I pushed Agron into the darkest shadows of my cell, the guard merely checked with a glance that all the grates were shut.  He did not even reach for his key.  He simply turned and retreated back the way he’d come.

Agron gave me a wide-eyed look of disbelief and then I was grasping his hands, guiding him toward my pallet.  I would have it smell of him.  I had three days yet before setting foot in the arena and I would take as much of him as I could.  His kisses and caresses.  Long arms and rolling hips.  A lifetime of warm skin.  An age of roaming lips.  An adventure of tireless hands.

We paid in the coin of silence.

We spoke in the language of touch.

We fed upon each other’s heat until our hearts could take no more.

I woke in his arms and, by the gods, this.  If I could have any boon at all, I would choose to greet every new day in his embrace.

It was dark yet and we made quick use of opportunity, mapping-worshiping-devouring each other absent sound, before Agron slipped shakily out of my cell -- the doors producing no more than a soft gasp -- and falling into his own bed to feign sleep.

The morning guard frowned at our grates as the lock rattled strangely, but he performed his duties as if nothing were amiss.  Agron and I had stolen an entire night together and, by the gods, I could not wait to make second attempt.  I would not wait.  Hesitation would only bring regret.

Time was short.  I witnessed this for myself later that night when the recruits were put to test.  Three of them passed.  One fell to many wounds and, though he yet drew breath, he was not spared.  On the orders of Batiatus, who did not wish to invest further coin in a man of low motivation and ability, the recruit’s throat was cut by Doctore’s hand.

The coals were put to flame.  The brand heated.  I stood upwind to spare myself the stench and memories.  The men cried out as their flesh seared, simmered, and steamed.

Agron brushed his knuckles over my healed brand, showering me with silent pride: I had made no sound beneath the brand of Batiatus.  I returned his smile and then sighed up at the night sky.  It did not matter how differently my introduction to this ludus had been, how and when I had earned the favor and respect I had been shown.  I had two days remaining.  There was no advantage to be gained at this late date by examining the path behind me.  I must look ahead.

Agron’s fingers trailed down my arm and wrist, another subtle reminder: I did not stand alone.  Not yet.

We retreated into quiet corridors as the gladiators welcomed their new brothers with talk and gambling.  For the second night in a row, we loved each other, though shortness of time made us desperate… but not rough or careless.  Never that.

Agron reclined, wrapped arms and legs around me.  Suckled my neck.  His cock slid between my thighs and if I could claim one personal possession to occupy my cell, it would be a pot of oil.

Mindless passion.  Need absent thought.  Desire without care for consequence.

Dangerous.

The thought only launched me to greater heights.

Agron’s tongue lapped at my neck and I shivered.  “Do not mark me.”

His soft moan was almost enough to change my mind.  “I would have yours.”  And when he offered his neck, something deep within me broke.  Took me over in tingling heat and fucking want-take-mine!

I bruised him between my lips.  Scraped him raw with my teeth.  Bit.

He released -- shuddering and slick across the back of thighs and curve of ass.  I gathered his slippery seed and, straddling his hips, made good fucking use of it upon my cock.  He gasped for breath, gaze made greedy with lust, and teased my chest, thighs, spine, and shadowed creases until I surrendered.

I collapsed into his kiss.

He caught me.  Held me.  Eased me back to sense of self and purpose.  Ever the older brother, yet I wondered who had taught him to be such an attentive lover.  Perhaps, if I managed to return to his arms -- victorious or not -- I would ask.

Or hold my tongue.  What good could come from revisiting life beyond this relentless march of days toward false glory and meaningless death?

I kissed his chest -- a far more deserving endeavor than the thoughts I contemplated -- until the sounds of nearby footsteps roused us to briefly visit the baths.  We rinsed.  We redressed.

This night, the guard was dutiful and Agron retreated to his cell with a token sneer.  I wondered, briefly, about the guard from the night before.  Easy enough to identify from the recently healed scars upon his face, a pattern that matched the metal mesh of the wall braziers in the house of Batiatus.  A bitter wound, expensive to treat.  Perhaps he could be bribed?

But, no.  I would not ask Agron to part with coin that would one day buy his and Duro’s freedom.

The next morning, I sparred with Varro and then with Spartacus… and then both at once.  Their combined efforts resulted in my defeat, of course, but I had held my own against each individually.

The Veteran claimed my next match with a nod that I gave no thought to refuse.  He seemed determined to employ every underhanded and dishonorable trick known to him, but I made him sweat and swear before he managed to land a fatal blow.

He held out his arm for me to clasp.  “You will live,” he predicted and I chose to believe him.

“The crowd will laugh when you set foot upon the sands,” Varro warned, “but you will win them over.”

“Turn toward them and salute when you achieve victory,” Spartacus reminded.

Donar concurred: “The cockless fucks will never know a greater thrill.”

Duro gripped my shoulder, giving me a friendly shake.  “Keep feet and set mind to purpose, brother.”

Agron smiled as my hand covered the livid bruise on his neck.  “You broke my confidence,” I accused softly.  “Spartacus, Varro, Donar, Duro, even the Veteran -- they know I’m for the arena.”

He shook his head.  “I broke no words on it, but when asked I gave no denial.”

“It was this mark,” I realized, doodling fingertips around its edge.  A token from a lover before parting.

He cupped my face and kissed me, uncaring that we sat in the hall for midday meal.  I shielded our lips and dived into the slick mysteries of his mouth, open only to me.  Just as mine were revealed only to him.

We parted and he caught my hands, tracing calluses and rough patches.  “Fucking capable,” he praised, and I decided that I was ready.

I was _****ready.****_

When the papyrus fluttered through the corridors that evening, Duro grabbed it from Tychos.

“Nasir. You fight tomorrow,” he confirmed in a pleasant, conversational manner and I appreciated his bravado more than I could say.

I gestured for him to share the list and I noted the other names.  Peirastes, Tychos, Hamilcar, Liscus, Fortis, Mannus, Plenus, and Crixus would share the cart with me.  I had never sparred or broken words of import with Peirastes or Tychos.  Hamilcar might sit with me.  The other four were Crixus’ allies and unless I sought a quarrel, I would not engage them.

Regardless, I would watch the matches of all if permitted and, perhaps, learn from them.  At least I would not be forced to watch a good friend fall.

Agron could not part himself from me in the baths: his skin was ever brushing or pressing against mine, even if it was only an elbow against the side of knee or the bump of shoulders.  He shadowed me to my cell, tucked me against his side, and when Duro poked his head around the corner, Agron allowed his brother to tell me of the time Agron had enraged a she-goat by reprimanding her kid for chewing on his boot while foot was yet within it.

“The stupid fuck sprinted through village center.  Got himself knocked to the mud with bleating animal set to scratch him to pieces with her little horns, and then came the kid right at her heels--”  Duro mimed a gangly skip and waddle.  “--screaming a battle cry fit to claim some flesh for himself!”

“Fucking goats,” Agron muttered, frown twitching.

I laughed.  “It is hard to imagine you small enough to be overpowered by an angry goat.”

Agron opened his mouth, but Duro quickly declared, “Fuck small!  This occurred the spring before our capture.  He stood as tall he does now!”

The glare Duro received for this proved his words true.

I scratched at Agron’s scalp around his clumped hair.  “Now _****that****_  I genuinely wish I had seen.”

To Duro’s sporting grin, Agron snarled a low, “Fuck off.  I would be alone with Nasir.”

With a salute, Duro bid me good night and left us to each other.

“I understand now why you thanked me for my smile,” I whispered following the sound of Duro’s cell grate clanging shut.  “I am stronger for it.”

Agron’s lips charted my brow with delicate kisses.  “Never question your own strength.  I do not.  And any man who does is a fucking fool.”

A fool that would soon bleed out upon the sand by my hand.  I realized: “I will stand in the presence of death on the morrow.”

It would not be the first time, but this was different; I’d been given ample warning.

Agron once more curled himself tightly around me, squashing my lungs into my belly.  I held onto his arms just as desperately.  “Return to my arms,” he beseeched on a thread of sound and breath.

“I will set hands and mind to purpose,” I swore roughly, “and see it done.”

At the scuff of approaching steps, Agron silently slid from my pallet and leaned into the shadows.  I reclined as though asleep.  Glimpsing the same scarred, lazy guard as two nights before, I held my breath…

He cast a swift, sweeping glance over the doors and, finding them all shut, retreated to ludus entrance to gamble or indulge with a house slave or do whatever guards did to pass the dark hours.  I smuggled a smile into the flesh of my elbow until I was sure he was gone, then I sat up and reached for Agron’s hands.

We stole another night.  Our mouths joined behind the shelter of cupped hands, muffling the slick glide of tongues and the sudden release of captured lip.  Softly laid trails meandering over shoulders and down ribs.  The slow rub of hips.  I fell to slumber absent release, unaware of how quickly Agron followed.

Perhaps he did not sleep at all, for he woke me with purposeful caresses while black shadows filled plentiful corners.  Holding me tightly, his lips moved, pressing the shape of words against my cheek, though no sound emerged.  I wondered if he spoke the common tongue or German.

I resolved to ask him upon my return.

Then, with a final press of lips to mine -- a soft, lingering echo of our first kiss -- he slid from my bed, eased the door to my cell open, and stealthily retreated behind his own.  I dozed, my lips curled into a smile as I held the lingering memory and scent of him close.

And then: footsteps.  The grind and clink of key in open lock.  The guard ordered me to stand and approach.  My apparent agreeability made him careless, leaving me to trail after him as he moved to the next cell.

I lingered for one more moment with my Germans, curling my fingers into the grates of their cell doors.  Duro’s hand clasped mine.  Agron hunched and brushed his lips over my knuckles.

“You stand the fiercest among us,” Agron rumbled.

Duro nodded.  “Go forth and prove it, brother.”

I would.  I fucking would.

Smiling brightly, I pulled from their grasp and followed the guard toward the changing room and armory.

The arena awaited.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you've enjoyed the second installment of "And Prove More Fierce."
> 
> I would love to hear from you! If you have time (and means) to leave a comment for me, I will absolutely treasure it!  
> Tell me all about your favorite things!  
> Ask me your questions!  
> I am waiting to hear from you, dear reader!
> 
> (P.S. It's entirely possible that kudos and comments will result in Part 3 being posted Very Soon...)  
> (^_~)


End file.
